Can I get ya anything? Coffee? Tea? Me?

I’m having a Working Girl kinda day, my friends! (Not to be confused with a working girl kinda day.) I feel Staten Island ferry, Carly Simon lettin’ that river run, epic. Yeah, epic.

Perhaps a new kind of Disney day has been born … a philosophical phoenix with heroine hymn and cityscape? For not even a truant Trainer (lunchbox lover) can allay my allegory.

I feel strong and proud, as if I’ve just shunned John Mayer at an industry event. Or like Martin Luther King in his heroic headway day. (Maybe I should’ve led with that?)

And so, I hereby herald this dolce dawn – Martin Luther King Day!

Just fuckin’ with ya. Plagiarism is but phlegm on the pulmonary of past pioneers. And so, I now indubitably designate this Parfait Day! Upon which I shall mislay my dismay and be gay (less Sean Haye’, more Doris Day), and bath my breezeway on life’s bidet. Freakin’ a.

As to the cause of my jump up, jump up and get down?

First. I have been making bouncy-bouncy love with many an online fashion site (cue video of woman dry humping a monitor, face pixelated to protect privacy) and the offspring of our illicit union arrived today. The stork (aka courier in ‘chalance ‘n’ chinos) brought my bouncing babes before noon and now I own an abundance of fantabulous fucken fashion.

Can I get a whoop whoop?

Whoop. Whoop. (To be said like Steven Wright.)

And in other glorium: yesterday I ran into a former victim of the Beast’s villainy (the very one to inadvertently impel ‘er my way, as it ‘appens). And upon casting the question of catapulting said caustic cat, she radioactively replied: hell to the yeah.

In fact, she conjured a canvas of such calamity ‘n’ carnage that it gave me courage to call my boss then and almost there. And to cut a long story moderately less lengthy, I laid that puppy out (like Steven Seagal in a veterinary clinic) and told him straight: hell to the no. The call lasted 46 seconds and ended in goopy, golden, gelatinous relief.

Let the river run. Let all the dreamers wake the nation, motherfuckers. I’m free! Free like the boobs of Winona Ryder in doily disguise (à la Reality Bites). Swinging free with glee!

Blessed be mankind. And Philip Seymour Hoffman.

About the wuc

I'm a chick living in Australia, working for the man. I hate office work with a passion usually reserved for James Cameron, but somehow I ended up with a career behind a desk, stapling my forehead at random intervals.

52 Responses to “Can I get ya anything? Coffee? Tea? Me?”

  1. Good to see you back… again, Wucster! Always entertaining.

    I wish I looked good for a two MINUTE window, every transit of fuckin Venus… so consider yourself lucky and keep enjoying… things. I dunno…

  2. Well. Your post is so amazing and I like your style very much. I wish to see more articles from you.

    Good day!!!

  3. I’ve spread the Sunshine Award to you, Wuc it up!

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