Best and Worst Bodyparts

Best bodyparts calves and lats, worst those skinny stick things attached to my shoulders.

Best bodypart? got to be my penis. It’s long, thick, and match in vascularity only by Casey viator’s forearms. My chest is pretty damn good and I could probably give char-dog a run for his money in the glute department (people don’t call me “pillow-ass” for nothing). As far as worst bodypart, it’s my calves by far. I’m white, but my calves are set high, like many blacks’ are. Got a question: I’ve also got really, really flat feet (almost no arch), and was wondering if anybody else had small calves and flat feet? just a theory. Peace.

Traps…I drive by the gym and they get a pump. Worst is chest, always a work in progress.

"MrZedd: spanking the Monkeyboy Eric since 1775. (couldn't resist)" - MrZedd

Styles, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but a truly world-class ass is, well, more than mere convexity. From your description, what you have is a technical condition referred to as “hyperglutealmegaly”, one unfortunately that means little in serious ass-rating circles. To be in my league, one must not only have basic mass (admittedly the first requirement), but beyond that “lift”, a lumbar spine section with a “swayback” configuration, Grecian proportion and form, and a certain je ne sais quoi that drives the ladies insane with lust. Have you thought about cleft taper? No, I didn’t think so. What about degree of arc under the gluteal curve? Thought not. Seasoned ass competitors can do the integral calculus necessary to calculate these values IN THEIR HEADS, bubba!

char-dawg, I didn’t want to admit it, but yes, I have let my gluteal curve slide a bit in the last few weeks, but my cleft taper was rated “top choice” in Ghetto Ass magazine just this past march (see page 34, you’ll be pleasantly suprised). Honestly, we could debate all day about the fine art of ass geometry, but we all know that the ass is functional as well as beautiful. A well conditioned ass can be used to pick up anything. Loose change, not a problem. Dropped your fork? got it covered. Small children? “I’ll get you out, danny!” the list goes on and on. Except gerbils, Never, ever pickup gerbils. Char-dawg, hopefully I have convinced you that my ass is not only a sculpted piece of rock, but also and polite and functioning member of society.

Styles you f’ing liar. You were not # 34 in the “Ghetto Ass” issue. You came in 35, but you’re bitter cause you lost out to that guy in a wheelchair with the clear plastic bottom. I suggest you apologize to the T-forum. Lata.

"MB: Biology just took one perfectly ugly turn since 2 BC."

-Eric

Monkeyboy Eric, me, bitter? maybe I’m bitter becuase something that was oh so rightfully mine was taken from me in nothing more than dirty ass politics. I didn’t want to bring it up, but we both know that kid in the wheelchair’s ass was loaded with synthol. Why, that lumpy, oil-filled, “pump-n-pose” mass was a sharp stab to the heart to everything we hold dear. I also didn’t want to bring up the “rumors” that the kid performed sexual favors to several of the judges, but the alternative would be to live in obscure shame in the world of assdom. Spot #34 is mine, damnit, I’ll take that argument to my grave.

Well Styles, maybe if you didn’t use the Costco size vat of posing oil on your can you wouldn’t have blinded the camera man and perhaps he could’ve gotten your “good cheek”, you know, the one you mused over in your interview in issue 27. The combination of oil on your backside and the gloss on the page are enough to rast a frozen turkey if placed in the midday sun. Little Johnny Hansen worked his ass off to have his ass on those pages, and your disgraceful diatribe against him is a pathetic display. As far as synthol, how do you suggest he injected it with only one “real” arm and that mechanical pulley thing? Hmm? Jelousy is truly ruining the sport of Assposing. As for the rumors of “favors”, you can’t honestly make a connection between Johnny’s closeness with the judges and editors of “Ghetto Ass” and his subsequent 34th placement. Despite his nickname, “The Bionic SPerm Bank”, I fail to see the correlation.

"MB Eric: pumpin' up, throwin' down, since 1676."

-Eric

Everything Monkeyboy Eric said is true. I’m a fraud. A Fake. My wonderful glutes? nothing more than two christmas hams duct-taped to an otherwise flat posterior. I can’t squat anymore because the sweat it produces sends the honey-glaze streaming down my legs like a river of shame. My glorious super-penis, described in a few posts above? that, too, is a sham. I’m hung like a Western Arizona Prarie Shrew who just swam in the English Channel. I’m beginning to think the girls here on campus have seen through my ruse, for the last 20 friday nights I have done nothing but dry hump my mattress with my “half-inch wonder nub.” The only thing I ask of this forum, please, please don’t tell my parents. Why, they’re so proud of me and my perfect ass, finding out the truth would do nothing but crush them.

Styles, c’mon, don’t forget the overbite…

"MB Eric: F'ed up fun for everyone since 3 BC"

-Eric

It’s true, everyone, Styles’ overbite is something to behold. He could easily eat a Big Mac through a set of venetian blinds. However, there is more to his story than young MB Eric knows:

While the March, 2001 issue of Ghetto Ass showed the shameful results of the New York and Upstate New Jersey Ass Classic, wherein the ham-taped Styles took a quivering 35th place (resulting in screams of contest-fixing and prompting the Congressional Ass Oversight Committee to investigate the matter), if you look into the past issues a different story emerges. Back in 1992, a fresh-cheeked young lad who called himself “Stools” debuted in the premiere issue of “Class Ass” with what were undoubtedly the most promising glutes seen in a decade. He flexed and posed and did tricks with them, the most impressive being pinch-lifting two 45-pound plates off a loading-dock palette at once. People talked abotu his “baseball buttocks”. Clearly, this was an up-and-coming ass. However, in a tragic lawn-mower accident, Stools had both cheeks vertically sliced cleanly off at the juncture of his upper quads. He gathered them up with the intent of going to the nearest hospital to have them re-sewn onto his now pathetically flat derriere, but found that he could no longer walk or run. Circling buzzards, quick to spot a feast, swooped down and gobbled the still-fresh buttocks before anyone could stop them.

Needless to say, the trauma of seeing one's ass disappear bit by bit into a couple of ugly birds wreaked permanenet damage in Stools' tender young psyche. Once he got out of rehab he lurked in supermarkets, stealing first oranges, then cataloupes, then full-fledged hams - all for the purpose of taping them to his backside to recall his days of glory. He changed his name and entered ass contests again, where sympathetic judges let him compete in spite of his handicap. Of course, they could not, in good conscience, award him any placing higher than 35th.

Styles is a broken man today. If you meet him on the street, give him a few coins and for god’s sake, don’t comment about the orange glaze dripping on his shoes.

Char, while you were dead on, and, might I add, very thorough in your historical account, Styles problems ruptured far deeper than the volitile surface which we’ve only begun to scrape away at. This is the continuation of the T-Hollywood Story:

STYLES: “BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASSK FOR…”

Styles grew up in a family of rotund, if not extremely sedentary furniture makers. Papa Styles prided himself on the innovation of the "assurounder", a built-in cushion which molded and cushion the most ample buttock. Unfourtunately, Lazy Boy stole the design before Papa Styles could aquire a patent. This left him bitter, and the family nearly broke. Living in a cabin in Upstate New York, the Styles family subsited on pancakes and small game, all well blanketed, drowned even, in maple syrup. The sticky, sugary confection was a staple food in the Styles' home, and their carcasses thanked them by clutching on to every sugary drop, creating thick layering not unlike a bear in preparation of a long winter's hibernation. Young Styles, aptly named due to his being the youngest Style in the household, often bore the brunt of his father's wrath. Paddled as a boy for the littlest mischeivous act, Young Styles learned to appreciate the thick padding that his buttocks provided. Yet he yearned to defy his father, to shed the pounds and mold his ass into something his father could not turn into a fleshy jello jiggler. Young Styles' drastic life changes next, on the T-Hollywood story...

"MB Eric: Taking a sanity break, since 1966."

-Eric

This was better than Saturday Night Live.