The last couple of days have been pretty fucking random, and not necessarily in a negative way, either. I’ve had a fantastic time as an utterly confused and bewildered individual. I feel like it adds to my truly irresistible Borat-like charm. For example, today on the subway, a little girl no older than 7 and wearing a pink flower in her hair, black Mary Jane shoes, and a zebra print coat was hardcore LMFAO shuffling (if you live under a rock, as I do, refer to the very helpful instructional video is at the end of this post) as her mother read the Holy Bible, unaware. She was also stripper-style swinging on the support poles. I’m still not even sure if I’m a pedophile for glancing over more than once.
I’ll keep you guys updated on the trial. As long as I can get into contact with O. J. Simpson’s lawyer, I should have a case.
I probably won't write a book, though
Two nights ago I got home at around midnight and started getting ready for bed because I had work early in the morning. I changed into my sexy pink Winnie the Pooh-themed pajamas, and went upstairs to take some medicine and grab a glass of water. As I stuffed my mouth with drugs, I heard a key being turned in the front door’s lock. I didn’t think much of it. I assumed it was my flatmate, we’ll call him Chet, also getting in late. I sipped some water to swallow my health-helpers.
“Chet?” I heard a woman’s voice say from the door. This wouldn’t be a problem if I wasn’t the only female living in the apartment. Chet has never introduced me to any sort of girlfriend. My first logical thought ran along the lines of, Jesus Christ, it’s Karla fucking Homolka! I left my mobile in my bedroom; I can’t even call the police! I bet Paul Bernardo is waiting outside in some car in which to load me. What if they chop me up and feed me to camels in Dubai? Oh my GOD! Dubai! It’s warm there, though…
“Uh… What?” I managed to muster. Yeah, not one of my shining moments. Note to all readers: if think there is a killer in your house, don’t talk to them. It’s not like you’re going to become friends and make margaritas together. Grab a frying pan and beat that fucker over the head. Or run. That option is also good for getting in your cardio.
“Is Chet here?” she asked again.
Wait a second, I thought. Some broad has a key to my apartment and I don’t know about it? It’s at about this point that I grew a pair. “I’m sorry but who are you?”
“Oh! Haha! Sorry!” she giggled. “I’m Veronica, Chet’s friend. We’re going on a trip early tomorrow morning and it was easier to travel for me to come tonight. Is he sleeping?” She shook my hand.
Hell if I know! I didn’t even know you existed, but you apparently have all sorts of access to where I live. On top of it, I’m in these stupid ass PJs without a bra! My boobs are EVERYWHERE as you’re shaking my hand. This is not the kind of show for audience participation. Nor is it one that is free. Cover’s $30, bitch. “Yeah I think he should be sleeping in his room. Have a great trip!”
Picture these guys with visible nipples. Yeah. Uncomfortable.
I retreated to my bedroom and started trying to figure out against which surface I was going to massage Chet’s face when he got back: a retired stripper’s hairy armpit or splintered wood with rusty nails protruding from it.
And as promised, the instructional video on how to shuffle even though now you are a year late. It gets helpful at 2:26: