Not too long ago, I was telling Sifu about how I think of my maternal grandmother whenever I eat port wine cheddar.
She used to enjoy baseball games with Budweiser (bleck), Ritz crackers, and port wine cheese from a red plastic tub. If she wanted to class it up a bit, she’d get those nut logs where the little nut crumbs are all soggy and chewy. It’s an odd thing to make me think of her, since overall she was a pretty swanky lady but she had her preferences and for whatever reason, this is what imprinted on me. Port wine nut logs, Ritz, shitty beer, and grandmotherly love.
Around Christmas eve a few years later, we went to a family party at my aunt’s house, and there on the table was a slab of port wine nut roll. Sifu made a comment about grandma, and all eyes were on him. ”How did you know about that?” someone asked. ”BIOU told me. It’s one of her fond memories of grandma.” And to my surprise, it was one of many peoples’ fond memories of her, and the cheese present that evening was a quiet, cheesy tribute to her, and a totem for her absence.
Imagine that. You can never tell what it is about you that’s going to leave a mark on the people you love.
I have plenty to work with, too, because we’re not too rigid about screen time in our house. Little13 takes very little interest in watching it with any intensity, preferring to run about dismantling furniture and rocking out with her blocks out, but the teevee is usually on in the background, broadcasting its bullshit. When she hears a song coming out of it, she’ll run to the living room, dance her ass off, and then run back to whatever she was doing before.
When I was a kid, though, we had cousins who weren’t allowed to watch teevee at home, and they were weird. Whenever they came to visit us during summer vacation, first of all they had never heard of anything. So when my brother and I started singing the Toast-R-Cakes jingle:
they would stare at us with their dopey blank faces because people who grow up in wholesome, educational households that don’t allow teevee also tend not to be allowed to eat Toast-R-Cakes, and SECONDLY:
YOU JUST TRY prying those little addicts away from OUR teevee. We’d want to go out and play and they’d be parked in front of our big television, eyes as big as Toast-R-Cakes, sucking down a whole childhood’s worth of cultural detritus so that when they finally went back to school they wouldn’t be like a pack of idiot space aliens who thought Lion-O was a fucking brand of toy train.
Just kidding, they were homeschooled. They’re cool as shit now but back then, Christ, what a bunch of wierdies.
So we don’t really pay too much attention to the teevee at home now, either to promote its use or to forbid it, relegating it to Chief Wiggum’s Forbidden Closet of Mystery status, which incidentally is a reference that those goofball no teevee kids will never understand until they’re old enough to run away from their psycho, head in the sand idealist parents and buy a teevee they can live in front of.
All this is a brief way of introducing you to the fact that I am familiar with a show called Jake and the Neverland Pirates, which is about a bunch of kid pirates who hang out with a couple of adult guys who are missing teeth, and spend time alone on a boat with them. Totally ordinary stuff. And when they wish to say an expletive, as pirates do, they say: ”Oh coconuts!”
Many years ago, when Sifu and I were dating, which is what you call people who live together and have sexual intercourse but are not legally bound to share their stuff with each other, I experimented with a new brand of shampoo.
This particular product was imbued with tropical fragrances designed to give me the air of a nubile Hawaiian maiden and I had been using it for a few days without feeling particularly nubile until one evening when Sifu approached me seductively to report that it was time to get busy. So we did.
It was in the midst of these intimate moments that Sifu whispered an odd thing into my face. He seemed to go to a far-off place and mumbled, “Oh, coconut…”
I do not know that there was literally a needle scratch, but I do recall getting decidedly out of the mood at that precise moment when asking him, “Who the fuck is coconut?”
Sifu: ”Your hair, dummy. It smells like coconuts.”
Sifu: ”What did you think?”
BIOU: ”Some stripper.”
Sifu: ”Coconut? Coconut the stripper?”
BIOU: ”Exotic dancer, whatever.”
I don’t recall if I was able to get back into the rhythm or if I just finished out of a sense of obligation to time already invested, but for a long time, whenever Sifu wanted to break my balls, he’d lean into my ear and moan, “Oh, coconut.”
So that is what I think about whenever Little13 is dancing to the pirate show. I think about the time, long before she was even a gleam in my ovaries, when I instantly suspected her daddy of paying a stranger named after a fruit to shake her titties at him.
It’s not the kind of thing I’ll ever be able to explain to her, but fortunately, she’ll be able to read this blog after I’m dead. It’ll be the thing I’m remembered for - the port wine nut log on her Christmas eve table, ever present in the back of her mind somewhere.
May you all have the happiest, sexiest, coconuttiest Labor Day ever, and I’ll see you Tuesday for whatever.
Mr. Furze does NOT want to go to war with France! Farts are not an act of war, and it’s time that we stopped thinking of them as hostile when they are in fact nothing more than breathy kisses from our colons.
Science can do all kinds of things, but it CAN NOT make us fart if the creator of the universe did not see fit to wire our anatomy correctly. Nobody can make us fart if nature doesn’t allow it. Anecdote time!
Almost two years ago, I lay in a hospital bed, sweaty, bleeding, my waist-length hair coated in a not insignificant quantity of vomit. I had just undergone a major surgical procedure during which a squalling creature had been removed from a gaping hole in my abdomen - a hole that, until that moment, had not been there. Doctors PUT that hole in me. I was in poor shape, friends.
I had an IV stuck in my left forearm that left a scar I can still fondle anxiously today. I was in more pain than I never knew a human body could feel. The enormous slice wound in my guts was being held together by TAPE. I couldn’t move without feeling like the end was nigh. My jugs had swelled up to the size of two large, rock-hard parade floats, and my legs were encased in a pair of giant inflatable boots, designed to keep my blood from coagulating, which was apparently a very real concern I hadn’t even considered nine months earlier when I was doing the bangaloo without protection.
I was exhausted, miserable, my bloodstream coursing with unprecedented hormones, adrenaline, and anaesthesia that was injected into my spine by a Rick Springfield fan and wearing off at an alarming pace. My blood pressure was skyrocketing to borderline stroke levels, the kind of numbers that send nurses running, wordless, from the room. I was terrified, leaking, seeping, and bleeding from parts of my body I’d never consciously thought about before, and suffering a strange reaction to the pain medication which caused my face and arms to itch so severely that I scratched the skin clean off.
And in this situation, every time I fell asleep, within twenty minutes without fail, a medical professional would slip into my room, pull back the curtains to my bed, gently shake me awake and ask me the following critical medical question:
"Mrs. 13? Hi, I’m Dr. Intrusive. I was just coming to find out if you’ve passed gas yet."
The answer, invariably, was no. After many hours of this, I eventually worked up the nerve to ask one of these rotating anonymous medical heads why they were so concerned about my track record in the fart department. To this, I received the following only slightly alarming reply: “Well, after an abdominal surgery like a cesarian birth, there’s always some concern as to whether you’ve been put back together correctly, and emitting gas is a good sign that we can stop being concerned about this and allow you to eat again.”
Some concern as to whether you’ve been put back together correctly.
"I thought you guys did these surgeries all the time," I remember gasping at the back of her retreating head. "This is supposed to be ‘routine’. Don’t you know where my organs are supposed to go?"
But she was gone, from my life, forever. Until the bill came, anyway.
For two and a half days, this went on. Every hour, sleeping or awake, alone or in front of a room full of friends, the doctors would drift in and ask me, “Mrs. 13? Have you passed gas yet?” No. No. A thousand times no. I never didn’t have to fart as much as I didn’t have to fart at that time, and I never wanted to toot so badly, friends, if only to make them stop asking, and maybe also so they would stop feeding me nothing but broth and Hospital Brand Jell-o.
What if I never fart again, I remember thinking. Will they let me leave this hospital? Will they have to reopen me to see what went wrong? I tried so hard, thought gassy thoughts, concentrated on manifesting the fart within, but nothing.
I’ll tell you this: I was never so pleased with myself as I was at 3:00A.M. on the third day, when finally, I was able to give them the answer they were waiting for. In my agony I crawled halfway across the room to get my phone which was dangling from the wall charger in the one and only outlet afforded to me during this $200,000 hospital stay, to text Sifu a single word: “Fart.” “Good for you,” came the reply. “I know you’ve been waiting for this.”
A doctor came in. “Mrs. 13? Have you…” “YES! YES I HAVE! PLEASE GIVE ME SOME FOOD.”
And they did.
When I think about it now, as I sit here composing an ode to a memorable fart for the entire internet including all twelve Simian Idiot followers to read, I find myself wishing that I’d known about Colin Furze back then, in October, 2012, when all my hopes and dreams were hinged on the production of a tiny puff of wind that none of my fortitude (fartitude!) and lifetime of training could help me summon forth (FARTH!). He could have manufactured a prosthetic fart to carry me out of the land of milkless tea and generic unflavored gelatin cups and into the world of bland boiled chicken nodules and canned green beans. Maybe they’d have let me leave the hospital sooner. My blood pressure could have dropped sooner, I’d be happier and sexier and a better wife and mother today if only I’d known about the machine that farts for you. And I wouldn’t have had to write this humiliating post, which let’s face it, I was essentially forced to do simply by the fact that I KNOW about Colin Furze.
His name has been my salvation and my ruination at once.
He is magical. Praise Colin Furze, Big Boss of the Day: Let’s let our accolades rip in his honor!
Yesterday, I woke up feeling not quite right. In a very uncharacteristic move, I stayed home from w*rk.
Unless I am quite contagious, I will typically drag my sorry ass to w*rk no matter how I feel, because even though paid sick time is a thing I’m entitled to, in my heart of hearts I know that there’s always a subtle punishment for taking it. But because my office is quiet this week, I went against my normal instincts and determined to stay home and get myself back up to 100% of my normal 75%.
This also equated to a bonus day with Sifu and Little13, which I always appreciate. Little13 woke up in good spirits, and Sifu fielded most of her needs so I could relax and get up to speed, but my presence was a distraction and she spent the entire morning hanging from my neck, Simian-style, and jamming her fingers into my eyes to show me where my eyes are. “Mama! EYE!” she will say, as she digs her needly little digits into their soft, pulpy mass. Yes my little one, those were mama’s eyes.
I was determined to enjoy a nice lengthy nap in the middle of the day while she napped, but as a wise man once said, “Man plans, God laughs,” so of course, she did not nap. At all. Not for one minute. After two and a half hours of tossing and turning in her crib, and marching up and down the square, she came into bed with me and forcibly showed me where my ears, neck, and boobs were. Via that helpful jabbing motion I mentioned earlier. She also urinated on me, just a tiny bit.
God damn it.
Now before some well meaning parenting expert chimes in and says, “Rev., your daughter is almost two years old! Maybe she’s starting to phase out of napping! You know, babies are perfect little nature receptors and they know what their bodies want,” allow me to tell you to stop the fuck right there, Mister or Miss Know-It-All. Hear this. Babies might be primitive little nature-beasts but they do not know shit about what they need. That is my job. Yeah she’s got a caveman brain and her own primal urges but this is a child who will eat a Cheerio the dog just stepped on and she has seen where that dog’s feet have been. She will pick other people’s noses for fun. She thinks I can make the teevee play whatever she thinks about because I harness the magic to manifest her imagination on command. ”Planes!” Mama can’t make planes just BE on the television. She may have a strong connection to her inner self but she don’t know nothing about nothing and *I* say she needs the nap.
The whole rest of the afternoon was fucking bananas. Whacked out on anti-sleep, Little13 was a roller coaster ride of lunacy, highs and lows, shrieking fits of laughter followed by demands for meat, followed by falling face-first into the floor, tears, and finally, at bedtime, there was no bottom.
When things go wrong, they keep going wrong, and it was around dinnertime when I took something out of the fridge and discovered that some unknown object had apparently bled to death in my refrigerator, contaminating every single item contained within. After an hour long fridge-cleaning marathon, we had nothing to eat, there were sticky liquids all over the floor, the dog stole a loaf of Italian bread and scattered crumbs completely throughout the house so Hansel and Gretel could find their way to her reeking dog bed, nighttime was racing at me at a million miles per hour and I was nowhere near feeling any better so I could seize today and rip its head off with sheer day-seizing enthusiasm.
All these many words are my way of saying there won’t be a post on Simian Idiot today. I got my eyes plucked out of their sockets and peed on and probably pork juice all over the house yesterday and I’m too tired to compose any words. I hope you’ll understand.
A friend of mine once told me about her in-laws’ tradition of leaving a seat for Jesus at the Christmas dinner table.
While I think that is a very charming and symbolic gesture, I couldn’t help but wonder how it must feel when year after year goes by and the inconsiderate Guy never shows up. Decades upon decades of set plates cleared away untouched, the hospitality extended through the generations and never accepted or reciprocated…How many times can someone turn you down before you take the hint and the invitations stop coming?
It’s like He thinks He is the son of God or something. Just because you can walk on water doesn’t mean you can walk all over my feelings. Jesus H. Christ. The H stands for Heartless.
Because I have a little OCD problem, I will occasionally pass moments of time by reviewing my Amazon.com purchase history. Doing so provides the rich, fertile loam in which the seeds of the Astonishing Shit You Can Buy posts are sown, so I consider this a productive pastime. But it also allows me to observe life in clearly delineated segments based on the acquisition of material things, which is so totally mentally healthy!
The default setting for the history page is six months, and because I do most of my shopping on Amazon, I am able to recall the past by such meaningful milestones as “nine pages ago, when I bought diapers, light bulbs, and a case of whipped peanut butter.”
My life is so stupid sometimes.
In any case, this little hobby of mine has been forcing me to confront the fact that very close to exactly six months ago, I purchased a men’s bathrobe and a couple of large-print books about ancient Rome, so that my grandfather would be able to pass the time and cover his ass in the nursing home he died in shortly after the packages were delivered. I’ve been watching those items inch closer to the bottom of the page, and now they are the last thing on there. In three days, they’ll fall off the recent history, and for some reason, this fact alone is making me feel like he’s dying all over again.
I’ve been dreaming of my grandfather. Well, not of him exactly, but he’s a presence in these dreams. Or an absence.
When my grandma died a few years ago, it came as a tremendous shock to everyone for reasons none of us can explain. She was 87 years old and in terrible health, but her passing was a blow that left us all reeling. For weeks I dreamed of her, and in every single dream there were two constants: The first was that in some way, I was disappointing her. Every time. And the second constant is that in every dream, in the back of my mind, I knew she was dead, and so did everyone else, but nobody wanted to be the one to tell her.
I guess I’ve talked about this before.
My mind made of her an angry ghost. The worst dream I had about her involved waking up in my bed to find my whole family in the kitchen, surrounding grandma who was lying on my dining table, covered in sheets. She was alive, but stunned and mute, and did nothing but look at us with accusing eyes. I was outraged. “You are not supposed to be here,” I said, and she glared at me. There were silent, uncomfortable glances all around. Wordless pleas of “Don’t tell her, she’ll disappear.” It seemed profane to let her stay, though. It wasn’t right. I’d speak up and ruin everything. Just like real life.
In the dreams I’ve been having of my grandfather, I’m usually waiting for him but he doesn’t show up. There was a fire at the factory and he hasn’t been seen among the survivors! His bed wasn’t slept in last night, why isn’t he home yet? Who can we call? Does anybody know his friends? And in every dream, just before I wake up, there is a moment of sad clarity when I start to remember why he isn’t there, and hasn’t been for some time, and why he is never going to be there again.
Isn’t it a kind gesture on the part of my brain, to help me progress with a loss by forcing me to relive it over and over and over again in surreal landscapes in which people lie on dining tables and there are factories to burn down? Fuck you, brain.
I’m talking about all this because as the Amazon purchase history tic illustrates, my brain likes to organize events into timeline categories, bookended by milestones. The first year of anything is monumental for me, rife with significance. The second year, less so. By the third year I’m ready for fresh hell. The six month anniversary of an important loss is today, and I’m having a hard time thinking about much else.
But at least I get these visitations, as angry and upsetting as they are, to remind me that once the milestone passes, the memory doesn’t fall off the edge of the planet like the purchase of a bathrobe and some large print books in my shopping history, into some vast mental void where forgotten shit goes to fester into the collective bitterness blob I’m made of. I get these little disapproving transmissions blipping through to remind me that in addition to the fresh hell, I can always revisit the familiar old hell I’ve already explored. Especially, but not only, on emotionally significant days, and very happy times, and holidays.
The ghosts of my dead are more dependable than Jesus. That guy leaves you hanging on holidays (GET IT).
My home borough, of course, is the absolute best. I have lived here all my life, and alternate between the extremes of feeling completely in my element, and much like a space alien who was accidentally left behind during a recon mission gone awry, in this most exceptional place.
Sifu and I have often talked about leaving, but something always deters us. It’s close to jobs (but the commute is an hour and a half each way). The cost of living is relatively low (and you get what you pay for). Some elderly loved one lives here or some new young loved one lives here and why uproot ourselves, or them, or her? There are greener pastures in literally every direction, but something keeps us in the Bronx, and it’s either the ties that bind or the chains that strangle. Sometimes both.
I’ve been to all five boroughs on multiple occasions, and my thoughts are as follows:
Manhattan: What everybody thinks about when they think of New York. Skyscrapers, and bagels, and banks, and smells, and subways, and culture, and hell.
Brooklyn: Hipsters, live music, beer, high rent. I once ate shrimp tacos in Brooklyn, and three years later I still remember them. Brooklyn is okay.
Queens: Short train commutes, Long Island, bad accents, good Greek food. Women with big hair. The Nanny.
The Bronx: The only borough with a definite article in its name, the only borough on the mainland. The only borough you are likely to escape from should bloodthirsty zombies or Cloverfield monsters attack. Crime, pizza, and a world-class zoo. Mafia movies. Metal detectors in schools. What doesn’t kill you either makes you stronger or wears you down a little at a time and kills you eventually. The Bronx is where it’s at.
My phone is filled with hastily snapped images of this magical place - sights which summarize the entire place for those who will never be “fortunate” enough to visit.
This is one of those images:
Jesus. The Way. The Truth. The Life. The trash-riddled curbside barricade to a chain-link fence around nothing. This image encapsulates the Bronx perfectly for me. Faith amongst the filth. We may be lying in the gutter, but we are looking at…the space where stars would be, if we could see them through the air pollution.
The new thing that all the kids are doing if my Facebook feed is to be believed is to fucking love science. That’s a lot of science love. Aggressively loving to fuck fucking science. Scientifically. It’s sexy stuff.
Well we here at the Simian Idiot Sexy Trends Institute are long-time friends of Science, and make no mistake about it, we fucking love it too, but more as a friend. Not in that way. We platonically love science.
Love is love. It still counts. Let’s talk about see through mice!
According to a recent article, Love Scientists have invented a way to remove all the cuddly opaqueness from mice to turn them into gelatinous, writhing horrors for the purposes of research.
It’s a brilliant thing to do, scientifically speaking, because the worst part of a science mouse is how hard it is to view its inner science workings, of course, but once again these scientists are serving as Nature’s Giant Buzzkills. I imagine the conversation that led up to this development went a little something like this:
Mouse Scientist 1: You know what I hate about doing mouse research?
Mouse Scientist 2: Droppings?
Mouse Scientist 1: No, I love the droppings. What I hate is how invisible mouse organs are to the naked eye. All the slicing open of the mice, which they tend to really dislike.
Mouse Scientist 2: If only there were a way to see…THROUGH THE MICE HEY WAIT A MINUTE!
Satan: I have some mouse gel potion in my fanny pack if anyone wants to shoot these suckers up with it.
Mouse Scientist 3: I’m getting pretty sick of the Mickey Mouse fucking Clubhouse constantly blasting in my living room, to be honest with you.
Mouse Scientist 1: Seriously. That asshole Goofy, right?
Mouse Scientist 3: Why does the gang even hang out with that doofus? I’m down to make clarified mice if I can take one home to fuck with my stupid kids.
Satan: Let’s do this!
Mouse Scientists: *Group high five*
To summarize, we live in a bold new future and I wouldn’t have it any other way. A world where a mouse can hardly nibble a little leaf without the morsels gliding down their transparent food chute into their see-through gut pits. These are scientific terms. We have finally removed the mystery from mice, which is a relief, because those motherfuckers have been holding their secrets against us for too long.
Mouse Scientists, you are our Big Bosses of the Day. Keep doing your sexy, secret, scientific abomination things against our nation’s rodents, but stay away from our weinerdogs. because not even science wants to know what’s inside their tracts. Let some things remain hidden from the human eye. Please.
Welcome back to Celebrity Hoarders. It is my hope that this series is both artistic and entertaining, and worthy of the A&E brand alongside such other artistic and educational classics as “Rodeo Girls”, “Storage Wars”, and “Duck Dynasty”.
If you have about ten seconds to kill, and you are confident that you’re not going to die imminently so the misuse of those seconds won’t be a tragic waste, do a google image search for “Bono”.
If you ARE dying soon and don’t want to bother, here is a screenshot of the first 30 results you will get if you do that thing you just said you didn’t want to do that I asked you to.
Thirty pictures of a guy. Twenty eight pictures of a guy scowling in sunglasses. Two pictures that may or may not be the same guy - I can’t tell. I literally cannot register his facial features when the sunglasses are not present, because this man has a problem. These sunglasses are a crutch, and he is weighing heavily on them.
"Rev. Back It On Up, you sick bitch, that’s just a bunch of pictures of him wearing the same sunglasses! How did you ever come to be such a colossally ignorant asshole?" Once again I am baffled by your hypothetical hostility toward me, but please do not assault me further with your words as I respectfully point out that NO THEY ARE NOT.
Some of them are red, some are purple, some are gray. Some have gilded scrollwork frames, some are darkly tinted. And all - ALL - of those sunglasses are stupid looking.
BIOU: “Thank you for joining me today, Mr. Bono. I am Rev. Back It On Up, and I am not a licensed therapist specializing in OCD and hoarding disorders. But I’ve watched a lot of teevee.”
BIOU: “That’ll be enough racial stereotyping for this article, sir. I need to talk to you about the sunglasses.”
Bono: “I feel that these define me as a member of the human race.”
BIOU: “You don’t think that you are yourself, without the glasses?”
Bono: “I feel like I am fading away when I remove them.”
BIOU: “What if I were to take one pair - just one pair, Bono. And just…put them right over here. On a scale of one to ten, what’s your anxiety like right now?”
Bono: “I want to kill you with my bare hands right now. I want to tear your face off and shit on you.”
BIOU: “So a ten, then.”
Bono: “I feel attached to these sunglasses.”
BIOU: “There’s something more here, deep down, that you’re not sharing with me.”
Bono: “I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”
BIOU: “I’m here to help you, Bono. The whole Junk team is here to help you get out from under the wall you’ve built around yourself. A wall made of dumb sunglasses.”
Bono: “My mother gave me these sunglasses, Rev. I just. Can we turn off the cameras for a minute?”
BIOU: “You feel that if you give up the sunglasses, you’re giving up your memory of Mother Bono?”
Bono: “I do. I feel that.”
BIOU: “What about your life today, Bono? Do you think your mother would want to see you living this way? Do you think she would feel unloved if you were to give up just a few of the stupid sunglasses? If she were here right now, what do you think she would say to you?”
Bono: “I think she’d say that she loves me, and it’s okay to let them go.”
BIOU: “What do you think, Bono?”
Bono: “Let’s get rid of them.”
OMG ANOTHER SUCCESS STORY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Bono refused the aftercare funds on the grounds that the money could be put to better use spread out over various charities, because he’s a good, sensitive man, raised well by his mother, the memory of whom is so strong and powerful and lives within him despite his collections. He’s working through his hoarding and is doing well with a support group.
Thank you for watching. Next up, “Love Prison”, which is a real show on A&E that even I won’t look into, not even for research.
You know how, in certain horror movies, an obviously evil object innocently makes its way into some hapless moron’s life, and even though the thing is positively seeping with malevolence, the jerkhole antiques collector/innocent curiosity seeker/stupid child can’t see the villainy right in front of their own fucking face, even as said object begins slashing its way through everybody this person knows?
Think of things like those horrible “monkeys clapping cymbals” wind up toys. Talking dolls that say ominous things. Strange VHS tapes labeled “Do not watch!” Cursed relics from desecrated burial grounds. Just the kind of thing we all come across at some point in our lives. But we, being sensible people and not the dim bulbs in horror movies, do the only logical thing and destroy these objects with great prejudice, or give them away as gifts to people we dislike.
I’d like to introduce you to this festive fucking thing, recently recommended to me by Amazon due to my nonexistent interest in getting eaten alive while I sleep:
From the description: “The lamp is brand new, never used or displayed. It uses one nightlight style bulb (included). It makes a great gift for clown lovers.” NOT from the description: “Warning, Clown Lamp requires your screams to survive. Exposure to clown lamp will cause you to bleed.”
Pay special attention to the seller’s name, friends.
Wouldn’t this quirky fellow look charming in your breakfast nook? What a good idea it would be to buy this thing and keep it in your house, where it can watch over your children as they sleep.
I was unable to get a “good” cell phone photo of this perfume in the wild, because when I first spied it, it was rotating on one of those turntables behind bulletproof glass in the “expensive things” section of the pharmacy. There it was, up high on a shelf, spinning so close but yet so far out of reach…ethereal, unapproachable, practically…unreal.
Like Justin Bieber’s girlfriend.
Folks. This would be a good time for me to make some kind of joke about Bieber’s masculinity, but the fact is, I find that to be beneath me. There are plenty of reasons to pick on Justin Bieber that don’t involve pinpointing his exact Manliness Rating, which is a meaningless number on an invisible scale signifying nothing whatsoever. I don’t know any of his music so I can’t comment there. Whatever quotes from him that I’ve been unable to avoid have painted him as an entitled, out of touch little shit with big ideas about his own significance but I can’t hold that against him either, because I was an annoying little shit once too and I did it without the pressure of the entire world watching me act up and seemingly unlimited money and praise to fuel me. I had to be a brat on the small scale. He’s an insufferable looking little dork who brings to mind a less likeable Donny Osmond but he can’t help his dumb face. His hair he could maybe do something about but he’s got a lot on his plate.
Try living up to THIS. You can’t. You cannot do it.
In any case, my consensus on Justin Bieber is that I don’t especially like him, but I also don’t exactly know why. He’s like an annoying cultural dingleberry that I just can’t seem to wipe off the buttcheek of my consciousness. So let’s describe this perfume as:
An intoxicating medley of blah, its tendrils creep into your brain and caress it with wisps of nothingness and undertones of vanilla. This perfume literally smells like the air that surrounds its every vaporized molecule. Indistinguishable from the surrounding atmosphere, you will hardly know you’re wearing it, except for the mid burning sensation and niggling, scaly rash.
As always, here’s a video to help set the mood for this post.