Ruminations on the Faux
It’s a quiet Wednesday afternoon in smoggy, hazy, car fumes smelly Los Angeles.
Your humble narrator reclines in his chair and contemplates the logic that leads one to wear a six inch faux to a frat party.
Your humble narrator also contemplates the firm, child bearing and land tilling hips of the Miami Hott in the center. How I wouldst forty acres those mules.
Brothabag Perry on the right gets a nottadouche, even with the hint of kissy lips.
But Gerry, on the left, gets a smack for the shirt and horns.
Where are we hurtling towards on this planet of global douchal plague? And how wouldst I nestle in Floral Brunette’s upper boob area crying out with guttural whimpers until she told me to leave then texted six friends about it?
These questions task me.
So I munch a Hoho.
And the sugar rush tells me all will be well in the witching hour as the sun sets over Coffee Beans and actresses.
As the breeze blows over the troubles of a disaffected yet hyper-connected populace.
As the twitters and twatters drink flavored americanos and the sands blow by counting the moments towards eventual disembodied sigh. As we prep to do it all again tomorrow in our eternal hope to break free and find truth.
I will have another Hoho now.
