Who Dat? Slevilness
What Dat? a BLAWG
When Dat? now
Where Dat? Paris
How Dat? explanation below
This City is convulsing and has started to stutter
She claims irreconcilable differences between pavement and gutter
Copper Coins are offered for sculptures of stallions and mares
Billions of Rubles for vanity's quest of Goldilock's good looks and hair
Collected auto-bios of Plagiarists sit on the recent graduates' couches
Outweighing the word of the Marxist's renouncements
Lady Justice has burned her blindfold at last
She was bribed with both a male stripper and a YAYO BUBBLE BATH
Following the path of Magdalene and piously affirm that you're devout
Yet your father has just been incarcerated and your mother is toked out
The twist of your fate is in Hollywood's new hit movie
Yet you'll deny vehemently that you were ever part of consumer society or a drug-induced groupie
-Slevilness
Damn. I've been a good friend of insomnia for a good minute, but tonight it's wrath finally peaked while barely watching Quadrophenia. For those millions of viewers (and by millions, I mean myself and probably my creepy neighbor that seems to be siphoning off my intern
et) Quadrophenia, as described by the sad little box at the bottom of the Skybox screen as "Including Phil Daniels is the Mod who, on a weekend jaunt to Brighton with fellow scooter riding friends, meets the Rockers for a seaside showdown". I'm all about the cult classics and Mod marvels, but this one is seriously killing me, except for this one second where the goofballs of the film are getting down to Booker T & the MGs "Green Onions".
No film can go wrong with "Green Onion" permeating its sticky icky goodness in the background. I mean, who can't dance to that baby?
Getting back to what I was originally going to blabber about, I think this sad moment at 4:45 in the morning, with shitty Parisian tin box cars zooming by and a cold draft coming from the single-paned windows that I can't seem to kick, indicates that I do indeed need som
e sort of outlet. I thought walking the parent's dog would be enough, but all that lead to was to angry faces and french curses from the local diners in the cafe once they realized that I hadn't picked up the "results" of the dog's pop-a-squat. I'm really not the type of hussy that walks around with a pooper scooper. Just do the shit step.
Definiton of shit step: the intricate parisian dance, that gracefully avoids animal defecation.
Heels tend to be the preferred shoe style, since they reduce the likelihood of complete shit coverage due to the smaller surface area in comparison to a man's loafer. I might just have to me-self a pair of dem' Nicholas Kirkwoods. So space age that I wouldn't be surprised if there's a rocket launcher/landing pad hidden deep inside, and with the flick of the baby toe, you go flyyyin' over all yer troubles. I need them : (
Mahhhhhhhhh. Yea, so this is a new thing, this blawging. Bear with me.
Hopefully I'll get the hang of things.
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