unrelated Phil, tea-bags anticipating jazz whore

There is nothing worse than a name dropper. If you drop a name and do not have to explain who the person is (i.e. that Bob is a famous astrophysicist who assisted in discovering dark matter, in which case I may just drop to my knees immediately) then you are guilty of one of the foulest social crimes in humanity. Assumed elevation of ones self by holding onto the balloon string of another. This thing may not be wasted on others, but for me, as we are heading to the beach together, you might as well have just said you have genital herpes and the shit is damn near flared out all over your thighs. I am sure there are very famous people who have wonderful views on life and love, thoughts that we could share, some probably even play board games like me. But these famous people are not my neighbors. Oprah is not calling to find out how my three legged cat is doing. Paris and I are not going to lay out and get a tan. And if one famous person ever did, say hello, is it me you're looking for? I would answer no but hey, wanna play some UNO and listen to Miles Davis (if it was Jazz Sunday, otherwise maybe some Modest Mouse). Cause I am not a bitch. I just can't be bothered; there are a thousand other people, with stories and jokes I would rather meet, that I accidently run into on the street or through a simple comment left online. They are the real stars to me. The famous should be the scientists discovering things that we'd never understand. I know I have said this before. Its like SoapBox v2.0 or maybe even v3.0. I am reminded once again, and I must say, once again, those things we should never forget.
Never. Forget.

The Silent E.
Unless this concerns Zach Galifianakis, who is probably the only person with whom I would currently mother a love child with. And I bet my husband would even let me on account of him loving the show Bored to Death as much as he does, so WIN. I would jump on his back in a heart beat and wash away his soiled hands with my tears of joy. Tongue extended for personal Tea-bagging Happiness Festival 2011 (thru 2050 at least).

Top paragraph rendered totally moot, fuck me.
I'd open my legs faster than a Chopped champion getting into some packaged ground turkey.

Meds obviously not at acceptable levels for society.
Try again, doc.

Totally unrelated: I miss Captain Phil.

1 comment:

  1. I want to play Uno. But not with Oprah 'cause we're not allowed within 500ft of her. That's why I let her have Chicago.