A powerful kung-fu move which can only be performed by radio rap stars like Busta Rhymes. When used on an unsuspecting enemy, the Bullyfoot caves in the subject's chest, leaving a dead husk. The Bullyfooter then throws up a gang sign, and boogies away. He gets in his stretch Hummer with nine ladies of negotiable virtue, his Avirex jacket wrapped tightly around him to keep out the cold. He's lonely, despite the cheerfully tipsy company. Attempts at conversation die in the smoky air of the Hummer's cabin; a wall of silence rises around the despondent rapper. Why? Why use powerful kung-fu to utterly destroy a human life--it wasn't even satisfying anymore, anyways! And God, why wouldn't those God-damned whores shut up?
"Shut up," he mumbles under his breath, "just shut up!"
"What's that, baby?" A slender woman in a tight plasticky dress leans in, emanating fuzzy concern.
He pauses--was she even really aware of what she was saying--and heaves a sigh.
"It's nothing, baby, it's nothing," he forces, offering her an oddly meek smile. "It's nothing."
After all, he was probably just tired.
Morton the Pucker: Hey, turd, gimme your lunch money!
Small Child: Leave me alone, Morton, I'll Bullyfoot you!
Morton: *raises fist*
SC: Eat it, you numb cumdumpster
of virgins. $12/ 60 cards = you got jacked, preteen!
"Best Cardgame" isn't saying much, to the dismay of two hundred thousand boner-nursing thirteen-year-olds clutching sticky binders full of bits of paper.