Tag Archives: undies

Do that voodoo you do so well.

I feel happy today. Like a jelly bean after a lavish spa treatment. It aint a Disney day, understand. But my undies are nevertheless alive with the sound of Cusack.

The factors to my blissful briefs (aka the pantaloon union) are thus:

  • they’re clean
  • Gay Prince is in da hizzie (whoop whoop)
  • I’ve been offered a job

Yes, they’re always clean (I aint no motherlovin’ grundie miscreant) but it bears heralding. Yeah baby, GP is scrum I’d-like-to-diddle-his umptious and yielding a tropic Travolta vibe today (night diva, night diva). And I doompahdee might have a new job! I’m negotiating the salary much like Hugh Hefner negotiates stairs – hopefully yet with some trepidation.

So! Like a pimp, allow me to headline the pros: the new gig is with my current company, but at a different office. Which means a transition smoother than an exfoliated Clooney and (like Shriver upon the morn of meaning) fare-thee-well Schwarzenegger. Most importantly?

No more Cult Boy, no more kooks. No more gunslingers, dirty looks!

Boo-fucken-whoop-whoop-yar.

I’d still be working with the mental crew but from a distance (à la Better Midler) (with hula hands and a song in my heart). And. Four days a week. Motherfucken, and. In the same bedazzled building as, drrrumroll … that fabled fabio of hetero hotness, Gay Prince.

It’s as if George Michael finally heard my prayers. (Wham wucs.)

In pointiest of fact, I’d be working for his boss’s boss. Wuccadoodies. GP dropped by my desk today, paused for bing grin and inquired after my employment health. Then, upon learning this malodorous morsel, backed away slowly (like James Cagney at having a tommy gun pitched in his gut). Aww-kward (to be sung like my little brother) (macho falsetto, yo).

This could be considered a con. Also: no more Coffee Guy. But then, I suspect his lattes are hotter than he. And he looks weary of late. As if our imaginary courtship is taking its toll.

The human torch was denied a bank loan.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Being a wannabe Snoop Dogg, I once said to my dad: “word to your muther, yo.” To which he replied, “come to think of it, I do need to have a word to my mother.”

Today in the lift, I missed my floor due to pondering Ryan Reynolds’ undies.

I hate food courts. It’s like McDonalds made rampant love to a retirement home and we’re expected to raise the mongrel offspring as our own. I aint down with a place where sinking waistlines and rising undies are synonymous.

Meanwhile, if you’re gonna sit beside me, how about you don’t rub your foot up against me like a mutt stacking a rubber tree?

I think my neighbour is stalking me through the wall. He always watches the same movies, one day later. I hear you, Kaczynski.

My bus driver ranted like Nick Nolte the entire trip to work today. Props for holding down a job amidst the crazy, Grandpa; and crusty congrats on finding a literally captive audience (Tony fucking Robbins of the asylum circuit, yo).

Do you ever get sick of your face? It’s like having your furniture in the same formation for a decade. I just wanna say, let’s see how my nose looks there.

Coffee Guy has cut his hair in a tragedy of running-with-scissors proportions. He looks like Little Lord Fauntleroy (which, if you’re wondering, aint a turn-on).

I fear that aging might be like going from a Rembrandt to a Monet.

I’m ready for my close up, Mr De Mille.

Upon arriving home every day, I strip down faster than Gordy “leech-on-balls” Lachance (of Stand by Me lore). It’s over quicker than a superhero relay, my friends. Shoes, jewelry, clothes; everything in its place, pyjamas on.

If you happened to be with me, as you turned to close the door (very well-mannered, thank you), you’d hear a soft whoosh and feel the air shift ever-so-slightly (as if a flea had suffered an embolism). You’d turn, questioningly, to discover that I’d transformed from haute to hobo.

The only suggestion that anything went down would be the wardrobe door, slightly ajar, and the gentle rocking of coat-hangers (my recent outfit hung as beautifully as a British racehorse). If you weren’t there, I’d resemble my 4-year-old nephew: nuded-up from the waist down (though at least I have the grace to wear grundies).

It’s with this naked premise that I tell you, when it came time to put my garbage out tonight, the problem of clothing rose up to haunt me like the Titanic in Ghostbusters. Despite consensus, I have pride. That, and my elevators move slower than an independent film, I’ll inevitably become stuck in a fashion nightmare the likes of which Celine Dion has never seen.

Do I go down in my kimono? I stand in front of the mirror and ascertain that no, I do not.

I look like a Japanese hobo. The real bind (pardon the pun): can I be assed putting on a bra? Somewhere in the distance, I hear strident laughter. Mmm, quite right, poignant-and-well-timed stranger. It’s only the grace of humanity and gravity which inveigle women into bras.

The task therefore becomes to look like I’m wearing a bra. I begin rifling through my wardrobe, to select appropriate camouflage. The result is a ridiculous concoction which makes me look like an eccentric artiste, circa 1927. Motley green scarf wrapped around my neck and down my front; flowy cardigan which (why do I own this?) one only wears to take out the fucking garbage; flourished with MC Hammer pants and flips flops.

I look like Norman fucking Lindsay, for sobbing out loud.

I’m at a loss as to how this marks progress, but. Entirely too much time has been spent on this endeavour. And so! Into the breach I go! My garbage in tow (figuratively and literally, yo).


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