Return of the Jay

Sixteen states, man.  Sixteen muthafuckin’ states are fuckin’ my shit up.  Even my own Jersey, fuck!  Medical marijuana crippled my employment opportunities, I had franchises in place, Holy Smokes cumming to a town near you.  I’m that genius dude Steve Hawk and shit.  My business plan was solid, P Diddy solid.  This muthafuckin’ shit ain’t fair, my hetero-lifemate Silent Bob and I can’t catch a fuckin’ break.  First John Hughes lets us down by dying and shit, after pulling off the greatest cocksuckin’ hoax in the world: lying to us about nirvana here on earth in the form of Shermers, Illinoise.   All that fine pussy but no bitches in sight cause that cock stain city don’t even exist.  Were back to looking for loose women at abortion clinics, and maybe that woman who has like eighteen kids.  Obama has fucked up this fuckin’ economy, were left peddling mediocre weed to nerds that don’t know better.  Excuse me, can I have a Kennedy half-dollar bag?  Get the fuck outta here Norberg.   But my man has figured some shit out, yo.  Electronics wizard, master craftsman, botanist, engineer, philosophizer, jedi knight, and mad lady killa, no way you tubby bitch.  Silent Bob’s been watching all these cracker-ass, crazy ass white boys arguing on the telly about who wants to be the next Pres A Dent.  Talking about colonies on Mars, men of the people, fuck them bitches who get raped – mad crazy.  We hit the road, we following these crazy white dudes everywhere, selling our wares, smoke some fatty-boom-batty blunts with old ladies talkin’ about a Muslim president, dudes with phat ice on their wrists and some young bitch on his jock complainin’ about how they are losing, it is crazy mass hysteria.  But nuthing accompanies such frenzy better than good ole Mista Mohasty.  Plus all those Waffle Houses down there, munchies galore.  Bizness is back!  So you can try and take away our weed, but you can never take … Hey, yum, where you goin’ Trish, when you gonna let me get a crack at that pussy.  Shit, I’d fuck me.