The Unmustered

I can’t close.

In the past couple of days, I’ve started and failed the following BMs:

• The one about the giant pencil in the office.

• The one about President Ahmadinejad saying: “I would like Mr. Blair’s government not to punish the sailors for acknowledging and telling the truth.” Seriously, was that ever going to happen? And also how the audio of his voice, combined with the translator’s voice, sounds like the kind of experimental shit, man, we used to do in Sound Design class back in the day.

• The one about overhearing a guy on the sidewalk talking on his cellphone: “No, man, it was amazing. Listen to the entree, dude: sirloin steak with bone marrow foam.”

• The one about the spoiled daughter of [redacted West African country]’s president, who came to the office for a quick meeting and talked about herself for 2 and a half hours while my boss sat nodding like a therapist. She yammered away about how she asked her father for “60 g’s” to buy her an apartment in New York [and the other $940,000?–ed.] and he refused, and in the end her mom gave her $10,000, thus proving to her dad she could make it by herself (?). Then she dished on Paris Hilton: “No one in Europe cares about her. She’s only worth 3 million.” After she finally left, my boss asked me, “Do you think we can use her for something?” and I said, “She’s the most boring, narcissistic person I’ve ever met. If she weren’t gorgeous, you wouldn’t even be asking that question!” The fascinating thing was that, though incredibly beautiful, she had zero charisma: what a ripe field to plow! But I still couldn’t close.

• The one about how I have TWO nemeses at the gym. The original nemesis is the perfect-faced blonde hipster girl, who wears a sports bra, knee-length leggings, and rolled-down short-shorts. Really? You need to double-layer it on the bottom but you can’t throw a goddamn shirt on top? My second nemesis wore GOLD LAMÉ HAREM PANTS and gold pancake-sneakers and a t-shirt screenprinted with naked breasts, so that in the event not every single person in the place did a double-take at the Hammer pants, they would at the faux-naked tits.

• The one about the new Friendship sour cream commercial, which features the worst jingle ever written, with the lyric: “Don’t let another chip touch your lippity lip,” and the whitest suburban family dancing ever recorded on film.

• And the saddest unmustered post of them all, the one about Pistol Whip’s birthday! First I wanted to find an animation of a sperm fertilizing an egg. Cause that’s always hilarious, right? And timely, though if you think about it too much, creepy. But after an hour, all I found was evidence that the University of Utah was hiring third graders to make these animations for them! Also, sea urchin sperm. So, plan B: I found this image.

And I wrote this:

On the day named Today, a special fusion of magic, gentleness, viperdom, sex/attack, sharpwit, and lovely hair leapt from the maternal loins and into a position of power and thralling vitality.

Thus a day of celebration! Of miraculous happenings! Of toasts and caviar, streamers and confetti! Black lace fans and castanets! Figure B and champagne!

But I couldn’t lick the stamp! Crimp the edge of the pie shell! Hang up the phone!

I can exclamate, however. Obviously. So, onward, steadfast comrade! Happy belated birthday!

by Left Hook | 5 April 2007 | random | Comments