Alpha Mail

Whattup, playas? C. Piddy is doing all y'all a favor by handing out the truth for free on this blog beast, but sometimes one of you pimps has a more specific question. You want a personalized shot of truth sauce? Here it is. C. Piddy gets literally dozens of pieces of mail each week. Well, a dozen. More like a half-dozen. Actually, it's usually around five. Whatevs, let's get it on like Donkey Kong!


C. Piddy, what's the most core thing you can think of?
-Alex, Connecticut

Probably an elephant superplexing a hippo into an alligator's mouth. Who's hungry hungry now, motherfucker? Then the alligator eats a grenade and walks towards a wedding. Honorable mention: The time I beat Aladdin on Genesis with only three continues.


C. Piddy, why are you always buying new iPods? Why don't you just recharge the old ones?
-Young Hov, The B.K.

Pimps don't recharge; they reload.


Carl, it's your mother. We haven't heard from you in a couple of months, and we wanted to make sure you're okay. Please call soon. We miss your voice.
-Mom, New Britain, Conneticut

Carl? Does anyone see a Carl answering emails? I see a C. Piddy. Dumb bitch. NEXT!


Hey, C. Piddy. I think you are the greatest athlete of all time. Like if Michael Jordan and Jesus had a baby it wouldn't be as core as you. You could dunk on it, and the baby would just have to say, "Darn, that C. Piddy is straight boss." How are you so much better than Dice Gay?
-Reid, New York

Look, Reid. You may be my nephew, and you may be eleven, but this is absolute shit. I specifically told you to make fun of Dice Gay's "gayroball" in the letter. Did you put that in there anywhere? No, you didn't. You let Uncle C. Piddy down. I know I said I'd take you to Dairy Queen if you wrote an email, but I can't reward this kind of shit. Sorry, Reid. It's for your own good. No wonder your dog ran away; you're a fucking embarrassment. Tell my sister I'll call her back when I fucking feel like it, Charlene. I got mad shit to do.


C. Piddy, you are so HoTT!!! What qualities do you look for in a woman?
-Sexy, Virginia

In order - Tits. Face. Personality. Ass. Will let you and your boys train ride up in that. Sense of humor.


Carl, it's your mother again. You forgot your father's birthday, and he's been kind of sick lately. It would really make him feel better if you'd give him a call. Please. We love you.
-Mom, New Britain, Connecticut

Jesus Christ. You see the shit I go through? There's no "Carl" here, and this dumb cooze sends me like seven of these emails a day. Anybody know how to set up one of them spam filters?


C. Piddy, I want to make the major leagues some day, and I know you have a jacked-ass body. Do you have a special diet?
-Julio, Texas

Straight-up: we're pretty full up here. Quit wasting your time, "Julio," if that is your real name. But I'll give you my diet just so it's not C. Piddy's fault when you fail. It's called the "Ultra-Sauce Diet," and it's a C. Piddy special invention. Basically, if it ain't sauce, it doesn't go in your body. For breakfast, I have a nice cool glass of Hollandaise. For lunch, I usually slurp from the fat jug of barbecue sauce I carry with me at all times. Dinner, I go to Mickey D's, order 15 Big Macs and lick the secret sauce off of them. Eating the patties is peasant shit; hustlas throw 'em away. Playa, if you can't have phat lats after that, you need to kill yourself.


C. Piddy, what do you think of Barry Bonds breaking the home run record?
-Evelyn, San Diego

Check it: I think Barry's thankful C. Piddy went to pitch in the AL where he doesn't get to bat. C. Piddy had wondered the same thing, so I paid a scientist to calculate how many jacks I'd have if I stayed in the NL, and he spent two years running experiments in a lab. He came back with this answer, "Around a thousand or so. Two K, max." If that's all you get for a three-million-dollar private research grant, C. Piddy says it's money well spent.


C. Piddy, I'm a little... unathletic. I go to high school in a very competitive environment. Most of the kids here would even go as far to tell me that I'm a "nerd." I tell them that many athletes were nerds at one time. And that they shouldn't desrespect me because I'm weak or that I wear glasses. Am I right or not? Tell these bullies who's boss!
- Lance, Royal Ridge, Co

I'll tell you who's boss: C. Piddy. Don't even write me again, you fucking pussy; I can smell your nerdbreath from here. Unathletic athletes? Are you fucking kidding me!? Right off the bat: 9th grade, I was 6'2" 230 and I was putting up 300 in the gym. Just movin' plates like a fucking waiter. Here's what books are good for: ripping to show how jacked you are. My term paper in senior English was just me shredding a copy of the Brothers Karamazov with my bare hands and teeth. Hardback, playas. Sure I got a D+, but now I'm a millionaire 40 times over, and that's better than any novel you could ever tear. (Except Of Mice and Men. Damn, that shit makes me cry, playas.)


That's enough truth for one mailbag, playas. If C. Piddy didn't get to your shit, holler at Reallycarlpavano@gmail.com, and maybe your gaping truth-hole will get filled the next time C. Piddy fires up the griddle. But don't cry like a bitch if your nose starts bleeding after you hit "Send." The truth hurts, playas.


LEANINGTOWEROFPEACE!