Is it a ray-finned fish found in coastal temperate, fresh and tropical waters? or is the truth more sinister: that it is a hairstyle for an unfortunate few trapped in the 1980s, when the mullet was on every heavy metal rocker on the face of the earth? […]
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. […]
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??” […]
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