Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Cliff's Edge
Here’s the thing. If our culture is barreling towards a cliff at 90 mph and we’re all slip sliding over the edge in a giant cloudy vortex of hair gel and chest shaving, there’s one thing to console us.
Tanned perkage of breastalicious boobology.
It’s like the twelve essential spirits that Zoroastrian monks queried in their monastic meditative silence. The great mystical questions of meditation that come in bursts of hallucinogenic inspiration in the grand collective mythos of society.
Only instead of that, it’s boobies.
