Omarosa tells Botendaddy: Trump has one weird tip about mortgage refinancing!

I was just South of Tucson (Pronounced Tuuk-Mama-San)  sitting in the last Shroake n’ Froake diner in all of North America. It was a typical greasy, shitty diner with flies buzzing around the rancid, sweaty, sweet-hot vaginas of the dirty-hot old 50-something waitresses. Ah the reek of festering ancient snatchamundo!

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Ah fair Arizona!

I had been asleep 😴 the entire time. My face flat on the greasy counter of the Shroake n’ Froake! I was awakened by the slap of the unshaven mustachioed hideous cross-dressing ‘waitress’.

”Wake up gorgeous, what ya having?” He/she’s said in a gravelly voice.

”Uh… well I’ll have some of the hideous, *hot* hairy transvestite… I mean the ham n’ eggs 🍳. I mean the sloppy Joe!”

”Ok, wit’ da usual glass of OJ? 🥤 Snookums?”

”Yeah… That too.”

The waitress puffed her/his nasty 🤢 cigar and winked 😉. He adjusted his massive sweaty granny-panties and put in the order to the terrifying parolee-serial-killer kitchen staff.

I was on the trail of the gritty, grizzled, haggard pulp writer BPL.

A man who sounded remarkably like Sam Elliott sidled up next to me.

”You must be the one they call the Botendaddy. America’s most feared anonymous literary critic. You never met a non-passable, hairy, transvestite you didn’t like.”

”Well I did once drive ‘truck’ (Pronounced Southwestern singular plural) Carefree Highway, Route 66, Sloppy Joe’s and non-passable cross-dressing truck stop hookers. Pure Americana at its best. Yessiree Bob.”

”I heard tell a rumor that BPL is up in the High Sierras near Los Trenzados Pass, somewheres  up in Inyo. He’s running some kind of a spiritual guru group up there. Something about people paying thousands to get naked and worship around a giant stone phallus (Pronounced Philatelist)”

”Then I’ve got to mosey on up there and see for myself. I’m on assignment for the Caven Courier. The phony government front newspaper designed to spy on Vegan 🌱 Unitarians ⛪ and followers of Martin Büber.“

“Well good luck son, that place is heavily guarded like a Hyperborean snake 🐍 tower.”

I jumped into my ‘69 VW bus 🚌 and I was off. Headed acrosst the desert into the High Sierras.





Trump promises a ‘Load of Breath’ for Botendaddy Secret Tapes – for Mortgage Refinancing while never Quoogling yourself on the Internets ever again!

I was putting the Caribbean Queen through a workout session in the gym in the massive cellar complex of Utonic Manor.

I bicycled 🚲 on the trail the day before – 12 miles mostly level or minimum grade which means horrific. My knees were destroyed by the bicycling. Hint: if you have bad knees… cycling 🚴 does not help!

“I was a personal trainer and a coach at various times. I recommend tri-cyclic circuit training™ TCCT.”

”Botendaddy, what is TCCT?”

”Well, it’s circuit training, but you go from aerobic to anaerobic to calisthenics. You start out with light stretching 🙆‍♀️ and light warmup. Never stretch hard or warm up hard. You need to loosen the joints, get the synovial fluid going, warm up the shoulders in four directions to avoid injury. Stretch, but don’t tear.”

”OK (Pronounced Oll’ Korrekt) Yon Botendaddy, let’s try it. While do you always call yourself fat and hideous? You actually have a great body. Now get your face out of my tits.”

She thus bespoke, thrusting her voluptuous breastssss into my hideous visage.

The workout is based on a simple idea, breathe and sweat, resistance training for slow-twitch muscles and fast paced body weight training for fast-twitch muscles 💪. Then start the cycles again. Keep breathing, stay loose, keep the blood flowing. Feel like you did a real workout. But do not start any workout program without the advice of a registered physician 👩‍⚕️ because I don’t know shit about your shitty rotting body.

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”Your title was bull 🐄 shit 💩 click-bait.”

”I know. So I lied? No one reads this crap anyway. Anyway it’s the double tri-cyclic circuit. You start upper body, then mid-body then lower body, cycling (Not bicycling, idiots) aerobic, anaerobic and calisthenics the entire time.”

”I’m really 😓 sweating. So f@&$ me, Yon Botendaddy.”

Almond Latte?

Peace be the Botendaddy



The Pareczenethy Conference begins in Wroclaw: who was Frä Rösczchelle Pareczenethy?

17 Dezember 1939 München

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Pareczenethy und seine Frau spielten Karten mit den Von Änästaads.

“Achtung Jüden! Und scheißenden Rassenverräter! Geöffnet sie den Tür 🚪!“

“Listen, friends, since I presume that these Gestapo (Pronounced Ghee-Schtaah-Poe) do not speak English, we are now going to switch back to Deutsche and I expect you to follow my charade (Pronounced Scheherazade) is that clear?”

The door is kicked in by hobnailed jackbooted leather-clad members of the fascist entity’s extrême enforcement arm gegen Jüdische Marxismus.

The Von Änstädts are violently beaten in an orgiastic almost erotically sexual bloodbath of violence as leather truncheons descend rhythmically thumping against undulating flesh as the eyes of the Gestapo thugs rolled back in their heads with sensual ecstasy.

”Race traitors! Shroake the Gestapo Major (Pronounced My-Yore)  all you left me were two shitty Jews! (The word Jew! Is shroaken or in Hoch-Deutsche ‘geschroackende’ like a Valkyrie (Pronounced Whaal-Chye-Rheaughe)

An emotionless 😐 young girl is dragged from upstairs by one of the Gestapo enforcers.

”Häär Pareczenethy! We have met before!“

Hatte der Major also gesprochen

“JaWohl Häär Major! Metz, Oktober 1918. It is a shame what’s become of you. You came from a good family and look at you now. You are a goddamned shit-covered disgrace to your family, to der König Bayerischen and above all the University of Augsburg. You have defecated on a thousand years of Hohenzollern civilization. You were better off standing on your principals and dying like a man.”

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Whhhaaaap! A violent sensuous slap is cracked  across the hairy disgusting face of the demonic Jew! Pareczenethy’s wife and daughter look on with abject disinterest. The three of them are ushered into a magnificent black Gestapo staff car.

”Rösczhy, I warned you and the baby to get out. Now they are going to kill us all.”

“Häär Doktor, we all die eventually. Our existence is irrelevant. Life is without objective meaning or purpose. Thus Existential Nihilism.”

She Said.

”They will torture you and the baby.”

”Don’t be maudlin father. We are not Duty-driven. A deontological Weltunschauung does not suit you. Nor utilitarian. Duties create rules per C.D. Broad. Don’t worry about me. I will die or I will study high Philosophical Prinicples at a great University and then die eventually anyway. These shit-covered morons have no idea what I’m saying anyway.”

Today, Wroclaw (Pronounced Breslau (Pronounced Vratislava))

An elderly woman is at the podium.

”Pareczenethy was my father. That is the story of how we ended up at Theresenstadt. My mother died there because she would not leave  Pareczenethy. She was classy, lovely, born to a good family from Westphalia. He was low-born low-class vulgar, disgusting, smelly, shit-covered, unshaven, brilliant, beautiful, unshakingly loyal to the King of Bavaria, he was fearless and principled and I loved him There I said it, I loved him! He and my mother preferred certain death rather than betraying the foundational prinicples of reasoned Philosophical thought. I was able to escape the final death 💀 💀 camp because of him and Häär Doktor Doktor Von Anstädt.“

“I look out at this audience and I see Philosophers, students, statesmen, scholars and ridiculous fawning insincere fatalistic Czech waiters roaking malu Cigaretu like the sniveling tip-mongering Tychy of Plzen. Stupid self-involved drooling gibberish-speaking driveling moronic self-indulgent drunken Czech idiots… my heros! I hope you enjoy this celebration of Philosophy. I look forward to your presentation as you drone on mindlessly about nothing as I fall asleep in utter boredom at the idiocy that is your life’s work. Morons. Disgraceful…”

The crowd gives a long ovation as a Triumphal Bach (Pronounced Bay-sshh) processional is played by a high Polskiyh quartet.




Secretariat, Reggie Jackson, Billie Jean King, Franz Klammer, Howard Cosell and Dr. J. was the 70’s

“1973. My Afro was gigantic. 6 feet in diameter. Stetson hat 🎩 Camel 🐪 hair coat 🧥 platform shoes 👠 with fish 🐟 (Pronounced ghoti) in them. Super-wide tie, I had my own funky sound track on my transistor radio.”

I soliloquated to Revolutionary Blaciquéz.

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“Man that is straight up jive, you turkey 🦃! Ain’t nobody gonna’ believe that mess you talkin’ you funky sexual blue-eyed soul-man! You wasn’t even alive back then!”

Said RB talkin’ fake 70’s jive.

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”Nah baby, it ain’t like that, I’m all the way live my funky soul-brother.”

I thus spaeke.

”Listen R.B. People nowadays, they don’t understand the 70’s. We all really tried to love one another and hold hands and sing in a mountain ⛰ top. So it all went to shit. What are you gonna do?”

So tell these young folk uppa in heah, Mr. Charlie, Bobo, Cracker, White Devil, Ofay… wait I’ve got to check my Thesaurusuaruses.

Secretariat – all America loved that horse 🐎

Reggie Jackson – 437 billion World Series wins with The Oakland A’s and the Nueva  Jorque Janquis.

Bilkie Jean King – we just loved her she crushed Bobby Riggs

Franz Klammer – and the insane downhill run

Howard Cosell – and his idiotic commentary

Dr. J. – arrested for violating the laws of gravity.

As I listen to my funk LP’s on my waterbed staring at my lava lamp smelling the incense and doing bong hits buying my arena rock tickets. Yes, we loved all of the above and we miss them now.

The 70’s are still out there. You can get a taste of it in the air sometime. Just put on an LP and light some incense.

Peace be the Botendaddy




How to choose a Trial Lawyer for any kind of Case

1. First question: if my nemesis is a laughing Hyena, are you a lion 🦁 that will smack that smug grin off of that hyena’s motherf@&$&g shit-covered face?

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It is a yes or no question. If your lawyer shies away, he is a limp noodle 🍜 punk-ass useless beeyotch 🐶.

2. Real litigation Attorneys don’t give a flying f@&k about facts or law. They need enough to go on and that’s it. Judges and opposing counsel don’t give two f@&$s either. Litigation is a fight: There is no objective reality. You do not show up at 3:00PM on the School yard if you know you are going to get your ass kicked because your bodyguard is a pu$$¥.

3. If your attorney just states a retainer, he or she is cool. If they drone out about nickel and diming you for every penny, then they only care about the billable hours and they will not fight for you. Or, they don’t have enthusiasm for your case. Say sayonara.

4. If your attorney says you can’t do this and you can’t stop your opponent from doing that, they are a cowardly punk. It’s about punching and keeping your opponent on the ropes. It’s all bullshit until a judge decides.

5. Real gangsta’s don’t give a f@&$. It’s like prison, f@&$ or fight. Check your lawyer’s demeanor. Are they cool and confident like Mr. Wolf 🐺? Or are they worried about every little thing? Your lawyer is supposed to calm you down, not send you into a panic.

6. Is your lawyer a litigator by trade? Transactional lawyers have never been in a fight. They cannot help you. They are not surgeons they are GP’s. Get a trial lawyer.

7. Does your lawyer nitpick and question you and make you feel stupid or inferior? Then they suck goat 🐐 anus, don’t hire that douchebag. I need a cornerman, not the film noir haggard gritty detective giving me the third degree.

8. If you can’t get a straight answer to simple questions, then they don’t have confidence in their knowledge of the law or they are too wishy-washy to state an opinion. Imagine them backpedaling yea bending over in negotiations.

9. If you call on a weekend for an initial contact with an attorney and they don’t call you back by close of business Monday, then no.

10. Does your lawyer calm you down like Mr. Wolf? Does he seem to have a plan? Then he’s your man.

It’s pretty simple. If your lawyer seems like the tough kid who will fight the neighborhood bully, win or lose, then he-she is your man-woman.

If I screwed up gender references, then f@&$ you, I’m not your goddamned babysitter… get your own goddamned blog, you cheese 🧀 dick 🐓.

Peace be the Botendaddy

New drinking game. Take a swig every time someone says F*ck Off on ‘Succession’

I Hate this show. Watching it is torture. I knew Will Ferrell was involved because of the inane stupid dialogue and the tag line ‘fuck off’

In ‘Spartacus’ on Starz one of the cleverest series ever, the tag line was ‘Jupiter’s C*ck’ at which point everyone would take a drink.

So now every time you watch Succession some people (adults only) may take a drink every time the unrealistic crude stupid Will Ferrell phrase ‘F*ck Off’ is uttered.

Caveat: I’m not advocating over-imbibing of alcohol for people too stupid to control themselves. If you do and want to blame me, then f*ck off!

I love Brian Cox from ‘Supertroopers’ and the awesomely sweet Caitlin Fitzgerald from ‘Masters of S*x’

Peace be the Botendaddy


”It was at the hall of Philosophy at the great University of Edinburoughe in Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 where I first met Lord Tychy Unpronounceablyckzcki MacTaggerty.”

18th Century Liberalism

“We must state our new humanistic principles!”

Quod Sir Henry MacDoggerland

”Women should not be beaten daily! Only once a month!

Men of Foreign origin are not 2/3 of a human, they are 13/16ths of a human!

Criminals can be executed no more than twice for murther and traeson, no more than once for stealing a spoon!

The poor can only be stepped on by three filthy muddy bootprints when they are thrown into puddles to provide dry passage for their royal overlords.

Taxes must be raised on the rich to 0.0000087% and the poor may be taxed no more than 93.78%!

Beggars can only be beaten on weekdays!”

I was exhausted from my soliloquy.

”Hear 👂 hear! What lofty principles of human enlightenment!”

Thus spaeke Lord Tychy.

Open letter to the Boten-Daughter





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It is a ghastly melancholy that has gripped my spirit since you’ve been away.

The halls of Utonic Manor are macabre and echo my solitude. I have taken on a ghastly pallor befitting my tormented soul.

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When I was serving in the bellum macabre at the behest of the all-seeing heraldic Free and Accepted American Eye of the Illuminati Pyramid Groveling Minions of the Shi’taanic Jüwés, I would often find myself scribing letters on parchment with quill in the candlelight of my tent. I would call you on the ancient telephone ☎️ and either the hideous putrescence freakishly (Pronounced ‘Shroake n’ Froake’) deformed Igor or the ghoulish late Mademoiselle DeLaCroix, would bring you to the apparatum so that we could converse in our way. We both believed that we would never see each other again on this earth.

On ne reverrons plus sur terre –Appollinaire

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Now I rest in unease on the ancient chair in the hoary great room of the maior pars Estate, which samesaid expansive room being so constructed in the year of our mandatory and lawfully required by this ancient free and accepted Commonwealth of the honorable Wm. Penn, said previously referenced deity being the sole Lord and Saviour such year being the 1,799th, him being so savagely crucified by those hideous ones who grovel before the demonic head of shrieking Kaph!

O’ ancient macabre hoary spirit! I bid thee hence! Fero vomit ore canes infernales, qui de tuo reditu ad ostium fornacis ignis inferis!

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It is only the thought of your imminent return that keeps me from hurling my wretched personage from the Stygian balcony a thousand feet through the misty darkness to the quiet dead valley below where no tree has grown and yea not even the savage beastes dare to pass! since the passing of our beloved Annabel Lee now shrouded in her sepulcher at the edge of the cliff above the silent fetid black river.

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Come thee home oh dark mysterious beauty! And sit beside me on thy chaise en lambeaux du troisième empire in the dusty great hall until we rot into the vile humus and the House Utonic sinks into the hideous haunted swamp!

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Veuillez agrée à accepté celui-ci, cette expression de mes sentiments les plus profondes et distinguées. (Pronounced ‘Diss-Tang-Gay)


Yours, truly, your most humble and dedicated servant, being the Lord Viscomte de Maison Utonic, zür esteemed and most Honorable Häär Doktor Doktor Botendaddy, Esquire Boot Polish and Chancellor of the Exchequer 

The Origin of Mocha

In 1516, the crazed Arabian Al-Khufu of Mocha, Yemen 🇾🇪 bought coffee beans from the mad Ethiopian Ras-Sneferughu. The beans were delightful. Soon coffee houses grew all over the Ottoman (Pronounced Osman) Empire.

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A young English Emissary named Lord Cockbaume brought the drink to Coventry. The drink made its way across the Atlantic to the Virginia Roanoake Colony, where a special variation of Arabic Coffee ☕️, 🐮 cow’s milk 🥛 and African Chocolate 🍫 was made. It was called Mocha Croatoan. The colony disappeared after the coffee beans ran out and ‘Croatoan’ was carved into a tree 🌲 by desperate Colonists.

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The Indian (One guy representing all known Native American tribes) kept the secret of Mocha and it was passed to the Mohicans who were wiped out by the shitty Magua and the white devils.

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Mocha was later passed on to a Scottish soldier named macTaggerty who joined the American Revolution and he shared the drink with Benjamin Franklin (Pronounced ‘wa-wa’) then Franklin shared it with the founding fathers.

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Years later, the recipe (Pronounced ress-sip-pee) was found in Franklin’s journals by a student 👨‍🎓 at Penn known as Schmuely ‘Skimmer’ Bergboim Cohenheimer Boingboomtschak in 1966.

In 1970, Schmuely moved to LA where he opened a coffee shop on Hollywood Boulevard called the “We’re not too Jewish Mocha Hut”

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Schmuely sold the shop and went into the movie business and the rest is history.