Mike Mulletino is about as American as apple pie, a staple of this section of people. He is your average white trash guy, he drives a Datsun, yet works on a Camaro, he smokes camels and sports a mullet. He lives in a trailer, and has no job. His brushes with the law are more frequent than the times he changes his shirt. He has several names tattooed on him, and he isn’t afraid to show them. He gets into violent fights and conflicts frequently, and embellishes a bit when he talks about it. He encompasses everything about your typical mullet. And he is the man representing a part of society we’d rather forget.
Partial list of impious contributors.
I was down at the laundro mat, gettin the latest dirt, when my bud Chauncy was telling me about terrorists in Rose Grove. I told him about the terrorist motherfuckers I found at Walnut Grove in Cali, and how I eliminated thier asses. You see, the double M don’t fuck around with this shit. You fucking wear a rag on your head, and fuck around in my town, your punk ass will go down. I don’t care if I shut down every 7-11 in this motherfucking county, I will kick hodgee ass if they fuck around. And they love to fuck around. So I made an appointment to smoke some weed over at Chauncy’s later, to talk about gatherin up an anti-terrorism task force in Rose Grove.
I was like “Fuck that” and pulled thier keys out again. I, (all by myself, because I hang out with a bunch of pussies) threw their asses into a pile and started searchin thier car… Guess what I found dude… a fucking big ass bomb, and plans to… BLOW UP THE LAUNDROMAT. Fuck man, them dudes were about to go free too.. I was fucking pissed. My fucking high was starting to wear off, and I needed to get stoned.
So I get to ma’s house and she’s already got the dogs cooked up, and fucking pork and beans, and the whole bit. A real Christmas dinner. We commence the chow. As I sit there, getting my grub on, the door swings open. I about shit myself. “ARE WE READY TO PARTY??” Frankie yelled. “Brotha… how long you been out of the joint, man?” I asked. “About a half an hour dude… you ready to fucking party??”
This is fucking nuts, I thought, I dont even have a goddamn job. My fucking P.O. Would probably have a goddamn heart attack if he heard this latest shit. I can’t believe it. Me and Cheryl, we been together since high school, and I love her and everything, but fuck, we cant have another kid.
First, I gotta tell you about some shit that went down at the hospital down in Cali. Doctor motherfuckers always piss me off. I have always fucking hated em. They are like fucken teachers in white coats, dude. Pussies. And assholes. They fuck with me almost as much as the pigs, and they think they are all cool and shit cause they wear that shit on their fucken ears to hear shit and have a goddamn lightbulb on their head. Fucking pussy motherfuckers. I hate doctors.
So I am trying to figure out some places to go. Where can a partying man like myself find some weed? Where are the cops gonna lay off my shit, and mind their own fucking business. I couldn’t think of nothing. The pussy ass faggot state of Cali can’t handle the MM anymore, and I gots to go. I was thinking of goin down south, to like Compton or Englewood or something, but a white boy can’t blend in around there.
A few minutes later, his punk ass dad rolls up. “I would like you to please not harass my son like that”, he says. I laughed, and said “I would like to you suck a fart out of my ass, you punk bitch” and pushed him.
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me.” That’s what I said when Cheryl first said some bullshit about me needing anger counseling. “Fuck you, bitch” I said, “that fucking pisses me off that you would even say that”.
So anyways, I sets out to find me a job. Nothin big, just somethin to shut her stupid ass up. I headed over to Intel man, to apply for their shit. I figure fuck, bro, I am in internet columnist, and they do internet shit there. I strolled in. Some wannabee cop motherfucker stopped me at the door. “Do you have a badge, sir?” He asked..
I mean, at first he seemed like an ok, dude ya know? Fucking long hair, not the ‘mullet’ or whatever you fucks call it, but long, drives a cougar, gold chains, you know, the fucker has style, I had to admit it. When I said that, Jeremy just kind of looked at me funny and looked over at his bitch and yelled ‘YOUR TEAM’ whatever that means.