Yeah. Pat O'Brien apparently wants some woman to "get fucking crazy" with him. I'm not real sure, since, thankfully, my computer doesn't have speakers (though it will after this weekend), but I bet there was a load of coked up desperation in his voice as he hissed his way through all the desires to suck, kiss and lick various parts of the poor girl's body. Up to and including her ass.
Huh. It's been awhile since I've been out on a date (picture me as a shut-in. Go ahead. I know you want to. It wouldn't be far off) but, uh, is this a sexual activity people engage in? The licking of the ass? Please, nobody lick my ass. Even if I say I want you to lick my ass? I probably don't. Yeah. I'm pretty sure. Don't lick my ass. If I EVER say lick my ass, I mean it in a mean, sarcastic way. And I'll probably say bum. It sounds less...like something Pat O'Brien would request of a woman he's trying to convince into a threesome.
So there's Pat O'Brien. What else is there....oh. Of course. How could one even come close to forgetting Michael Jackson's neverending story? Except in his version of the Neverending Story, the little kid is like: Screw this journey! Let's have a sleepover and drink Jesus Juice!
Patient: Jackson. Diagnosis: Crazy as fuck. Prognosis: Lifer in a looney bin until he slits his wrists because they took all his toys away. I love the Michael Jackson re-enactions. These actors are clearly giving it their all. Except, IT'S SO LAME! My GOD! I mean, are there actually people who sit there and watch the whole thing? I mean, except for his crazy, crazy fans. Possibly even crazier than he is. And what about the guy who's playing Michael Jackson? I'm led to believe he's an impersonator, but...jeez! Does he really look like that? And is he black? Or white? As Michael Jackson taught us with video morphing: It doesn't matter.
Aaaaaand...Whitney's in rehab. Surprised? Didn't think so. C'mon celebrities! Help us out a little, huh? Come up with something a little more interesting. Here, Crazy MJ is the main act in a three ring circus and Pat O'Brien is skeevy and gross and telling people he wants to lick their asses. Rehab? Jesus Whitney. I expect to see you with a wig full of sweat and a nostril full of coke.
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There are a fuck load of big bands coming through town. Sadly, I will not be taking in shows by Velvet Revolver or Motley Crue, however, I have fucking AWESOME Green Day tickets. Also, of the three, they're the one group I'm reasonably sure will not break up or have a member die before I get to see them. Unless Tre Cool lights his pants on fire again.
Can I share a secret with you guys? Are you sure you won't tell? Are you really, really sure? Are you paaaawwwwwwsitive? Really? Okay. I'm trusting you with this one, Internet. Don't lose your grip on it like you did when I told you about how I loved Uncle Jesse.
Okay. Here goes: I love Slash. Yeah. That one. From Guns 'n' Roses. The one with the hat and the hair. No, not Duff. The other one. Right. I think he's sexy. Or, you know, he was. Back in the day. You know. When I was in my prime rockin' years. Better known as: Sixth Grade. I had these two friends who were the badasses of the neighbourhood. When I was in trouble, it usually had to do with them. There dad lived in a trailer. And had tattoos. And their mom didn't live there anymore. There was a succession of girlfriends. And the trailer was on their Grandma's property. And she bred dogs. There were mullets involved. I may have had one at some point.
Anyway, we hung out all the time. And listened to their dad's tapes. He was a big fan of Guns. I was captivated by a dude wearing a top hat. What can I say? I thought he was sexy. C'mon! Playing his guitar in the rain? What could be sexier!? He coulda' been electrocuted, people! And it was cold! And November!
For serious. I wanted to marry him. With his cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a nose ring before nose rings were de rigeur. And that sneer. Rrrowr!
I realize I may have been a little mis-guided. But also: I was 12! Jeez! I totally grew out of it! Sort of.
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