Americans,
claude le monde no networks, no nukes, not notcakes
how we do: + you are # |
10:46 am | 18 June 2004 | flotsam & jetsam That cookie So last night I was all coked up (a-cola Coke, and Diet, to boot: see below) and riffling through my CDs all crazy-like, and I found this totally ludicrous mix CD from Tape, and I popped it in on my commute this morning. Friends, this mix CD included the song "Nookie" by Limp Bizkit, which was awesomely hilarious and had me laughing like one of those annoying Halloween motion-sensor witch doorstop things. But my question is this: The chorus goes "I did it all for the nookie (come on!) I'm not here to debate artistic merit, of which there is none. My question is simple: Is he saying to this unnamed ex-girlfriend, "I dated you for sex only, my dear, so you can feel badly about that fact" or is he, in truth, telling her to stick a cookie in her ass? I am just wondering. Come on. Also That CD also had the theme song from "Angel" on it. Shut up. That ass On Tuesday as I was leaving work a trio of middle-schoolers were walking behind me and then I swear to God they started CATCALLING me. Cat-hollah-ing. Whatever. The gist of it was "Damn, girl, look at that fat (phat?) ass. I'd like to hit up on that, shit dawg yada." I turned around and, somewhat indignant yet bemused, was like "C'mon, guys. You have years of this kind of shit ahead of you of this. Take it easy right now, huh?" The oldest, who was maybe five feet tall in his size-six Nikes, replied simply, "It's cool, I'm into older women. Whatcho name?" Was it wrong of me to feel weirded out by this? Like TOTALLY weirded out? Furthermore This morning's fashion theme was "Swarthy Jackie O. in Capri" and I was kicking it in my new shoes (below), a peasanty-skirt-thing, black t-shirt (I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER BLACK T-SHIRTS) and a headscarf, and well as what magazines call a "nude lip look" to set off my yes-indeed-it's-summer SAVAGE TAN (observant readers will remember that I'm part Iroquois and, as such, broil up like a bratwurst in any hint of sun). Apropos of very little, a man sauntering down the quietish early streets looks in a me-ward direction and goes "Girl, that dress look DIVINE." Uh? I was the only person on the street, yet so distinctly not wearing a dress in the leastmost. Do people even LOOK anymore, or do they just have some basic prelim filter that goes "SCAN SCAN target:FEMALE run:CATCALL.EXE"? Blinded
This morning I got so much soap in my eyes that I could only have gotten more in there had I peeled the lids back with a pair of tiny speculums and rubbed the bar forcibly across their surface, or perhaps if I had gently GRATED some soap FLAKES into a saucer and then SPRINKLED THEM into my kangaroolike undereye POUCHES and then RUBBED THEM ALL ABOUT, hokey-eye-pokey-style. God seriously. "Speculums" Yes, Jer, I know it's probably "speculae" or "speculideau" or something, but I don't have time for your "waaah, Latin plural forms bleeeargh, I'm smarter than you" today. We have the same IQ, sucka. Siete At the ghetto gas station yesterday morning, I found one of the greatest snacky-treats of all time: Lim�n 7. They are basically sugar-sized packets of powdered lemon rind, sugar, citric acid and salt, and they will completely scour the surface of your tongue off with acrid tangy sourness if you're not careful. Needless to say: I'm not careful. Workflow Yesterday devolved into complete pandemonium along the order of "Scrap all viable labor efforts in favor of watching The Tom Green Show and drinking light-beer tallboys." I crashed out when I got home and then made the sweet decision, at 9:30pm, to hit up the Angry Asian Shell Station for a pop. Er, soda. Sorry. Anyhow I was lured by the 44oz. fountain Diet Coke, which came in a cup that was less of a cup and more of a pail, seriously it needed a handle and then perhaps I could get two of them and carry them on a YOKE like a fucking MILKMAID of COLA DELICIOUSNESS. Anyway, I then drank the whole thing and sat up until 3am planning out the totally SWEET mixtapes I am making today, which you can check out here if you want to see what aspartame-fueled audio madness looks like. Get back, Marc! Thrift stores have been GOOD to mama this week. Here is a complete list of all the sweet shit I scored. A few of the pieces defy written explanation so I am including a few awesome drawings, too (hastily executed in Sharpie with a "Lucky magazine" look, which remind me to tell you Monday how much I hate that BITCH Andrea Linett). See how good I am to you? Act like you want it! All this is hot!
� and THE JACKET: unless otherwise noted, all work contained herein is � claudia sherman, 2002-04. |