Fung Friday
Another Friday afternoon. I sit and sip my plastic cup of Night Train, and down another HoHo, and contemplate the singularity that is the Oompa Prompa we call Fung.
Only Fung and DJ Bello may appear on this site without hot chick as counterbalance. Because they are too hilarious not to.
Fung is both Shakesperean and Biblical. By which I mean his iconographic legend is a grand tragedy buried within a narrative we can only glimpse in episodic parable.
But somewhere out there, there are the Douche Sea Scrolls. Once decoded by scholars, the D.S.S. will fill in the missing parts in the story of Fung.
And by missing parts, I mean… nah, that’s too easy.
Random links as I clean out the pixel closet:
2007 Douchebag of the Month winner, Mystery, is more like a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in fart.
Michael Godard. The pooiest artist since Jasper Johns. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, Jasper Johns.
He Just Bangs Bitches and Blows his Hair, then Makes the Kissy Lips. Facebook status: “I don’t just like Double D’s I endorse it.“
Tag Bodyspray now has a record label. But have they signed Buckcherry yet?
The MP3 Skull Belt. Douchey? Nerdy? Somewhat hilarious?
Peyton List may be dating a slice of scrotal taint, but secretly she wants to tap-dance on my lower pelvis area wearing only a Robin Hood outfit, stiletto heels and nursing a sickly marsupial she rescued while on vacation in the Australian outback.
