Friday Night in the Naked City
Los Angeles. City of ‘bags. City of hott.
It was the breast of times. It was the douche of times.
Choadbags flexing like twitching insects in the crackling dry desert underbrush.
Hottes rolling through downtown like mystical apparitions of boobosity, possessed spirits like Native American tribal elders. Cursed to wander between the axes of all that is soft, lickable and juicy assed, and all that is chest shaving scrotemunch.
The z4 Roadsters, like chariots, awaiting the spiritual afterlife journey of the douche/boob soul, torn asunder betwixt chaotic contradiction.
I sip my cup of Night Train and I regard the hott and the douche. Grappling and clutching as if trapped in amber. Frozen in perpetuity. An existential crisis of iconic sweet and douchewank. Of cleavite and scrotundae.
I see boobies. I see mandanas.
I see contradiction. I see paradox. I see desire and choad, mixing like a foul cocktail with a hint of sweetness. A hint of hope.
And it is Woo.
