Thursday Afternoon Musings
It’s a lazy, hazy Los Angeles afternoon. The unemployed hottie actresses are sitting around the Coffee Bean typing text messages to their ‘bags. Traffic has plugged up Melrose like the colon of a constipated dock worker. Hollywood smells like a mixture of desert flower, grease from a Jack-in-the-Box, and monkey poo.
Another day in the naked city. Your unshaven narrator in all things scrotey/boobie, The DB1, is sitting on his couch, basking in the afterglow of the genius of Pumpy and watching Judge Judy.
As I sit on my ass munching on Malomars and washing ’em down with Trader Joe’s sublime Blood Orange soda, I can’t help but ponder more of the mystifying questions of the ‘bag/hott.
When entering into Woo orbit, what triggers the mind of the Hott to seek out the greasy muggings of one so ‘baggish? Is the sexual component a vestigal holdover from primitive tribes and alpha-male peacocking? Or does it relate to visual dress as a cultural signifier? Think bandana as communication of workout obsession and thus implication of sexual power. Does the Hott seek cultural capital within the codes and signifiers of tricked out uber-douche bling and 10 degree cap tilt?
Or are the Hott simply dumbasses?
I don’t know.
But I do know this. My feet smell like elderberries and honeysuckle. Because I had my first pedicure yesterday. Oh sure, the Hottie Korean was none too pleased with the state of my feet. But them’s the breaks kiddo. And now my nails are shiny and bright.
As to tomorrow, the Friday Haiku is almost too painful to comprehend. So be warned. Sharpen up your Japanese 5-7-5 and get ready. As for now, I’m ditchin’ the Blood Orange and going with the strong stuff. Thunderbird.
