Who has bigger balls than me?

Karla, that's who.

I'm man enough to admit when I've been beat, my friends, and been beat I have. Been. Beat. Um...

There was recently an exchange of emails between the lovely and brainiful Mrs. Karlababble and myself that, to be frank, just blew the doors right off of the "Good Taste" Barn. In a good way. Nay my friends, in a great way.

If you're like me (read that as: sick and most likely criminally depraved) you'll get a kick out of this. If you're more faint of heart or light of stomach or not liking of sicko humor, then you may want to look away now. Don't move on to another web page, just look away. No fair clicking blindly with your mouse in the vain hope that you'll hit a link and be transported to some other less offensive blog either. Just you look away and sit there like the Wussy McWimpsalot you are.

So here's the story: Next week one of my "Deck the malls for Santa" trips is going to take me right into Karla's neck of the woods, and I'm going to get a chance to meet this wonderful (frightening and wrongheaded) woman and her long-suffering hubby face to face. Some emails were exchanged to square out the details of this whole meeting, and suddenly I found myself in the midst of what can only be described as a spirited game of "I can out-deprave you." And yeah, Karla gave her OK to share this with all of you sick fuckers.

It began with me, at the end of an email, saying:
"I fly out to Texas on Sunday. This is your last chance to set the mall on fire and spare me a trip."

To which Karla replied:
I hadn't thought of setting the mall on fire. My plan was just to plant several bombs throughout the DFW airport set to go off just after your plane lands. I like that idea better, because that way the mall will still be intact in case I need to buy shoes sometime in the future. And no, that wouldn't spare you the trip, but it would save me a drive to Plano.

Wombat:
Mmmm... "Bombs" and "Airport" in the same email? That pounding on your door is probably the feds.

Karla:
After that, I'm off to kill the president.

Wombat:
Dear NSA Analyst:

My friend Karla is just joking about these things and didn't mean to set off any alarms in your stealthy e-mail reading software. Disregard any mention she makes of the violent overthrow of the government. Please regard any mention of sedition and/or public anarchy as, you know, just fucking around. Any references to Communism, Marxism or Dictator-incited jihad should be taken with a similarly huge grain of salt. Please do not smash down her door and arrest her. She has a small son to take care of and to parade through the liquor store.

No, wait. Disregard any mention of the liquor store. Under no circumstances should you read her blog.

Um, please go back to masturbating over internet porn and think no more of my friend Karla, the harmless, oh-so-completely harmless Texan mother who is in no way plotting to take over this great nation of ours and install herself as "Supreme Pooh-bah."

Thanks.

Karla:
Look, I'd love to sit and read these emails all day, but I've got a meth lab to run here.

Wombat:
How do you find the time do it all? Between the meth lab, running the underage Nicaraguan whores out of your basement, Selling arms to the Dallas street gangs, and selling your own illegitimate children into white slavery, I just don't know how you don't go insane. I'd be a wreck.

Karla:
I'll admit, it makes for a full schedule. But just knowing how much unreported income I'm making gives me a rush that the rest of you tax-paying citizens can't understand. There's nothing quite as thrilling as cheating the IRS out of hundreds of thousands of dollars per year.

Wombat:
Oh hey, I was cleaning out my hard drive and I found those pictures of you stump-fucking that 11-year-old blind kid at that un-registered Klan rally. Boy that was some good times. Speaking of, did you ever remember where you hid the money from the armored car heist? I know you can stay afloat on the money you make trafficking in stolen organs, but the rest of us need to eat, you know?

Anyway, Uncle Jimmy gets out of the big-house next Tuesday and he wanted me to tell you that he's looking forward to raping a few Mexicans to death with you just like the old days.

When I visit next week I want to see you get your kid strung out on Horse like you did last time. That shit was FUNNY.

Karla:
I don't know about next week--you know Halloween is my busy time. I'll be putting razor blades into apples and stickpins infected with the AIDS virus into mini-candy bars all week. I'm a little behind in the project because I just got back from Louisiana, where I've been doing a little home-and-business looting. (No one would suspect an out-of-towner.)

While you're in town, I may need a little help. Do you know where I can get some Santa suits? I've hired some guys to pose as Santas collecting for the Salvation Army at store entrances all over town. That should bring in some crazy money. I've got the bells for them to ring, I just need more Santa suits. I do have about 100 suits, but I've rented them already for top-dollar to pedophiles so they can hang out at malls and strip malls and let kids sit on their laps reciting their wish lists. If I make a big enough pile of cash this holiday season, I can give up grave robbing, at least during the winter months.

Aaaand we're back to me: At this point I gave up and admitted defeat. I had to. I think if I hadn't it would have ended with one or both of us being hauled off to jail, screaming "I swear, I was just joking about the necro/pedophilia ring!!!"

What does this mean, oh blog-buddy? What moral can you get out of all of this filth and depravity? I think the lesson here is don't get in a fight with someone who has bigger balls than you, because when you get down to it, it's all about ball-size. And Karla is one chick with a big old hairy pair.

Grave robbing... I'm still laughing. If you're not reading her blog, please, for the love of God, do so immediately.