Who knew that Frank Sinatra did not like eating his breakfast alone. Or, that he preferred scrambled eggs. Myself, I like them over medium with toast but whatever.
When I am super raging famous and acting completely ridiculous (you're already ridiculous, bunny, what do you mean by 'when') I am never ever ever eating breakfast alone again, just like Frank (I don't eat breakfast or eat alone, 98% of the time, this post already wandering into idiocy-land, instead of mouse ears we wear butterfly wings, but fuck it, its Thursday, buckle up and keep your hand and feet inside the vehicle).
Mr. Concierge, dear sir, share some toast with moi.
Hey hooker gurl, you want a bagel with cream cheese, holla!
Sup' mah bumz, let's get some bizkits and graveeeeee.
I got way too many voices in my head screaming for a cheese danish right now.
With all these holiday mascots, you would think at some point a corporate whore would have streamlined everything with one main representative, conservatively dressed and named "Present King" or something. Neutral colors. Monogrammed everything. Drives a Hummer.
I get all panicked when I think a holiday is approaching and can't remember what it is I am celebrating. What's up with Labor Day, I mean, can we get a logo for that or something? Pickaxe? Gold Watch? Jimmy Hoffa? Valentine's Day is the next, right (well, not for me, I will be celebrating Imbolc this year with the byproducts making candles).
I have always wanted to create a bunch of violent and bloody Valentines Day images. The idea of a cherub with arrows to me, is scary. Little kids freak me the fuck out. I dunno. Maybe it is a photo shoot.
STFU fatboy, we ain't GOT NO APPLE STRUDEL.
Top of "upcoming holiday get me some shit I want list" (free copy for all members of requesting society) is an empty vial of Rabbit Anti Mouse (I am not sure I need a full bottle, though it may prove a far more interesting gift, especially if toxic). If it were the only thing I ever received for my birthday/Christmas/Valentines Day/Take Your Slut to Work Day from now until the end of time, I would be the happiest bunny in all the land. What is it? I have no clue. But since finding out it exists, I can do nothing but obsess about possessing it. My grail. Holy. Sacred.
You can't masturbate with a quiche, Napoleon.
It is a mixed bag, as we collectively (me, us, them, you, your half off internet deal live monkey) race my paranoia clock. Oh, it exists and the time is set... possibly ahead, potentially behind - DON'T TRUST THE READ OUT! Just shake. Shake again.
One minute you are comfy on the couch, the next, thrown into a lake of fire with gasoline panties on. At least it's mildly entertaining. That House show is way better though. Nevermind. Go home and watch some TV, there is nothing to see here.
Two Words: Grit Crepe.
International trend setter.