Thursday, July 30, 2009

I feel pretty, oh so pretty....

My job has awesome perks. I get paid well, it's union, I get to do the hardcore workouts I am too lazy to do otherwise, I see really hot guys often enough to be relieved to not actually have to stoop to talking to them, I get to do what I enjoy, some of the things that are asked of me are hysterical, but best of all....are the people who pay all this money for a show ticket, and then obviously spend the day before heading to the venue playing pin the tail on the way too short skirt obviously designed to flatter that corroding Ring-Ding receptical with all the unappealing characteristics of two 7 lb Jello molds with cottage cheese hips as accessory scarf, complete with fishnet tights which when worn as conneseurs like yourself prefer, in a size that can only be described as criminally ambitious when viewed through the horror lens of your flesh making a break for it through the holes as if your chubstumps were anti-porno braille. This ever classy tribute to bubble wrap perfectly illustrated, as only re-runs of national disasters of epic preportions are wont to be by your eye-catching(and dragging) Grimace-purple clingy top obviously chosen to be the topper on this obscene bakery item you have chosen to reveal to all and sundry by a simple alteration to the bottom of the shirt with your handy kitchen shears, thusly making the pendulous jelly roll that frames your waist as flatteringly as a herpies outbreak in a Cancun bordello seem even more right for your personal fashon Armageddon when balanced by your frosted-wheat curls painfully shellacked into a air-raid helmet that leaves all trailing in your wake gasping as if in a Raid and Shower-to-Shower cloud of spray-can induced world harmony. And Oh! You have brought a guest. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself, decked out in clean duds that almost clear the crack of his ass. It's almost worthy of a religious ceremony, but while all decent dice-toting Princess Leia worshipping chronic masturbators are heading for the auditory slaughter of the local emo band, you, Sir, are a leader. It's obvious that your dedication to Star Wars is not going to be quelled by a puny toy collection. No, you are a warrior, as determined by your firm grip on your World of Warcraft action guide, lest some poor unfortunate be afflicted by the audacity to try a snatch-and-grab on the Holiest of Holies. Your stand as proudly as your donut-seat cushion will allow from its near surgical grasp of your Chewbacca-worthy nether mounds. Stand tall, bask in the victory! You and your Date-A-Wreck are almost certain to be mistaken for stars of the silver screen. She for her wonderful rendition over the dessert buffet of Violet, the ponderous near-tusked hooligan who turned the same flattering blueberry color only affected by elderly Asian males and your particular sub-species as so elegantly displayed in that gluttonous family favorite, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And while your made-for-TV star is not yet on the rise, I will take to the streets to defend your honor, since it is blindingly apparent that through a terrible misjudgement your role of perfection was cast to another, a second-rate crooner who did nothing to improve his lot while you would have charged ahead, giving valor to the show in your spot-on method acting in Life Goes On. For you, sunshine, the only limit is your mother's stolen credit card.