24 August, 2010

Tuesday! Tuesday!! Tuesday!!! TUESDAY!!!!

I haven't got a damnable thing to present today.
A fetching Aussie gave me a taco last night. I still went to bed with dry shorts.
There's some rockabilly kid Georgie met and he has to record a demo or something to graduate from music school but his friend apparently made a shite recording on his iPhone and tried to call it a day so Georgie is pointing this rockabilly kid in my direction. I don't know how I feel about that. First, there's the fact that I haven't recorded anybody else in ages. Secondly, there's my natural repulsion to rockabilly. Thirdly, there's my natural repulsion to rockabilly. And, lastly, there's my natural repulsion to rockabilly.

Pictured: Rockabilly.
But, you know, I could get a case of beer out of it or something. Maybe meet a nice rockabilly girl* in the process. Don't these cats normally come with an entourage of some sort? All pretending to be Marlon Brando in The Wild One? Shit like that?
Anyway, yeah, you haven't lived until you've had a rockabilly girl's legs wrapped around you while her chest tattoo stares you right in the face. It's total mindfuckery... but it's hot.

OK, so she's French. Quit being a hater.
A fetching German came to the office this morning to re-up for a solid week. Interesting. It's almost like she's a spy or some shit; German accent, dropping two hundy in cash. Small bills, too. Sure, I know that's probably just because of how ATMs work and shit but let me have my fun. Let me pretend I'm the cashier at the grocery store in Nikita, will you? I have so little to live for and here you come wanting to poo-poo my spy-fuck fantasy. I want to hear an authentic throaty lung clearing Hessian primal-grunt-orgasm and then have a vial of neurotoxin injected into my buttock before she steals away into the night with the microfilm, motherfucker. You can't tell me that you wouldn't be into the same goddamned thing.
That's a... yeah.
What else can we talk about?
Let's see: I've turned a taco into sex. I've turned a potential recording gig into sex. I've turned a guest extending their stay into spy sex.
Yeah, that's... yeah.
Oh! So you know what I - no.
Fuck it, I'm out.

* Practically the only redeeming factor to the vapid and bankrupt exaggeration culture that is rockabilly revivalism, the ladies of rockabilly have their own website which, I'm sure you'll note is nothing but pictures - no text, no music, just pictures - and looks suspiciously like a Google Image Search result.

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