||[Mar. 31st, 2007|02:52 pm]
The Fashion Pigs
It's awkward when your junior high math teacher is in a blues-funk fusion band, because you just know you're obligated to go see him play. Then you're in class, making Excel spreadsheets to calculate the price of bananas, and he comes by with a saucy wink and starts fishing for compliments.
"You're kidding, right? We're in public. People can see us. Button up your shirt and stop being so California Casual."
I'd look embarrassed too if I was sitting next to two intense punk-rock astronauts. Actually, I'd be thinking about the Challenger explosion.
No, no, not the guy in front. He's just dicking around and knows his John Waters moustache is ridiculous.
But check out the guy behind him, Mr. Confidence. His wrap-around shades are spirit-gummed to his forehead to hide the lobotomy scar. He is the personification of an Eddie Bauer Edition Ford Explorer.
Welcome back to G4 TV! Right now we're teleconferencing with Darkwolf, who writes snuff fiction on alt.sex.stories.moderated... goddamn it, can we get a wide shot please? His thousand-yard stare is shrinking my frontal lobe.
Every time a Juggalo takes a bad webcam picture, an angel gets its wings. When I say "angel," I mean me, and when I say "wings," I mean the sudden impulse to projectile vomit.
It's a good idea to coat your Realdolls with a thin layer of acrylic shoe waterproofer before a night on the town. Also, give one of them a glass eye as a conversation piece.
When the 10-year-old children around you are cracking the fuck up and thinking about writing an Encyclopedia Dramatica article about you, maybe it's time to get out of the fursuit.
I wouldn't be so smug if I had a collapsed chin, a kiddie pool full of LA Looks hair gel, and a friend I bought at American Eagle Outfitters.