Booty Call




After providing us with her extensive alphabetized list of words for the old buttisimo, as Body by Jake used to say, Canada Peg wrote us a mock-rant letter in an effort to try to incorporate each of the many names to describe the backside at least once.


Dear Apocalypzian Smart-
Ass!

Moons over Miami!

You're as low as the
hind ends of slaughtered hams heading for the lard bucket on a hot day.

Your
blog post of April 28 belongs in the dump. Your half-arsed use of my cataloged bootay of buttocks--which was right on the beam--as the impetus behind your latest blog is the bottom of even your barrel.

You turned my serious
seater study into the butt of a joke, and added many a bare-bottom pic, no less; indeed, it was spheropygian in presentation, but to what end? I had a haunch that you were using my pulchritudinous talents in order to seat your own back end on the throne of fame.

I'd
duff my hat if you'd ask if you can bum the list. But you just grabbed the ill-gotten booty, like a pie full of yams and ran with it, to out flank me.

How
cheeky!

There was no warning to
cushion the blow to my fundament-al sense of trust, my in-nate innocence. It felt like my glutes got rear-ended by a freighter hauling 10 cars and a caboose!

This isn't the first time I've seen the
underside of mankind; oh, no. I've been taken up the yin-yang, down to the South Pole, and all through the wazoo, but have never gone past the posterior as you have, with your heinie-ous act that pushed the limits of the backside of decency.

Get off your
rump, and follow your own callipygian route to its tail end rather than follow where my tush has already led. I'm not about to take a backseat to your verbal talents. Your rhetoric will forever tail mine...and I had once thought your lingual abilities surpassed even the great Gluteus Maximus himself.

I think you should repair to the rear of your
hindquarters, tuckus your tushie away, and write, for many a moon, till you're so tired you're draggin' your wagon...unless you're afraid it would just be a load of junk suited only for a trunk in the outerparts of your garage.

I hate sounding so
stern, but this really frosted my buns; I bet you figured you're such a cute patootie that your derriere would shine after just a tiny apology. Hah!

You're sorry, my
fanny!

I wouldn't care if you took a
pratt fall in the parking lot and landed on your keister!

Love, Canada Peg :)



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