iPhone
Three weeks before the iPhone was released, my then-current phone exploded. Literally. The battery cracked upon impact with a concrete surface, released some sort of quasi-radioactive goo that reacted with the electronic components with such vehemence that unwitting passerby said, “Ooh!” and, “Aah!” as if it were the Fourth of Julivar’s. (If, for some reason, you don’t know that Ivar single-handedly birthed this city with a mighty “YOP!” from the center of his loins, or that the Fourth of Julivar’s is his eternal gift to us that we may celebrate all the glory that is Deep Fried Seafood, get the fuck out of Seattle. You have no right to be here; none at all. Ivar Studies is taught in the first grade here in Seattle, that we may all revel in our Clam. You suck, you transplant bastard. It is my moral duty as a Seattle native, as one of God’s chosen people, to hate your guts. It is my moral duty to hate them even more if you’re from California.)
So I bought a black-and-orange Sony Walkman. After all, it displayed the Bitch Kitty Racing colors. What could be more perfect? Except the Sony, of course, which did not interface with Apple’s OSX in the slightest, rendering the expensive Walkman part of the phone totally inert. It also experienced an Impact Event on its third day of life which cracked the clear screen cover. No replacement was available, not even from Sony. (Impact Event is what we Design Techs call “racked in the pills.”)
At any rate, last night at Peep Show (I LOVE YOU HONEY SEXPOT! I LOVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY! OH MY GOD, YOU ARE THE MOST BRILLIANT, BEAUTIFUL, TALENTED, AND CHARMING WOMAN EVER UNLEASHED ON THIS PLANET! IS IT CREEPY WHEN I SCREAM MY LOVE FOR YOU? IS IT? IT IS?! YEAH, IT’S KIND OF FREAKING ME OUT, TOO!)
What?
Oh, yeah.
Okay, last night I attended the Heavenly Spies’ Peep Show at the Can-Can Cabaret (I LOVE YOU HONEY SEXPOT! I LOVE YOU FOR ALL ETERNITY! OH MY GOD, YOU ARE THE MOST BRILLIANT, BEAUTIFUL, TALENTED, AND . . .)
Sorry. The Spies are just so amazingly, unbelievably talented that my brains explode. Their choreography is phenomenal—they’re actual dancers, not just point A to point B exhibitionists. And Honey Sexpot is so, so pretty . . . I mean, they’re all gorgeous. Sorry, Honey darling, but I can’t even look at that Agent Rhinestone; looking at her is like staring at the Sun.
What? Where the hell were we going with this? What’s the title of this piece, anyway? What’s my scope?
“iPhone.”
Okay.
Last night, after being listening to the very sound advice of my L.A. Douchebag for more than three minutes (L.A. Douchebag is what we Design Techs call “racked in the cranial pills,” or a producer), I suddenly and deeply needed to get really, really drunk in order to erase any memory of meeting with a Masshole transplant by way of California, in very much the same way that the French have stayed drunk for the last sixty years in order to erase their guilt over greasing up their rectums and begging the Germans to pound them like the dirty whores they are.
What? Where are we?
“IPhone.”
Yes.
As the principle of the Bitch Kitty Racing Team (not principal), I do not submit myself to any form of public transportation. No matter how frozen-pizza-buyingly drunk I get, I never submit myself to the imported retardation that is (CAB COMPANY’S NAME DELETED—BKR LEGAL TEAM). I have a very nice woman in a black car take care of me. It doesn’t hurt that she just so happens to be an Atomic Bombshell, one of the best troupes in the best burlesque city on the planet.
I heard my phone hit the pavement as I exited the car. i said to my L.A. Douchebag, “I just dropped my phone,” to which he replied, “BLAAARRGGHH!” which translates to: “Oh, I’m so sorry! Wicked bad energy, yo. Let’s go find an unsuspecting musician to rape.”
I remember thinking at the time, “That was over three hundred dollars. I should probably pick it up,” and then thinking, “BLAAARRGGHH!” which translates to: “Oh, to hell with it! I’m a rich, fat American! I have money ejaculating out of every orifice!” Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning an found that I was not only skinny and poor, but also that I had apparently had a clam dip deficiency on the away home.
So, for all those who have called or messaged me in the last twelve hours, and for certain brunettes that I really want to undress, I have neither your numbers nor your communiques. I am running down to the gym right now (that’s right, motherfucker! Running!) and have decided to pick an an iPhone on the way back with all that money that is blooming from my behind. Please call me, please text me; I routinely back up my numbers, but that routine is monthly, and I lost my phone on the first day of the month.
I LOVE YOU, HONEY SEXPOT! I LOOOOVVVEEE YOOOOOOUUUU!!!!!!!!! WHAT’RE YOU DOING? GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME! DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME, MOTHERFUCKER! YOU WANT IT?! YOU WANT SOME OF THIS?! YEAH, I’LL LEAVE! I’M GOING, MOTHERFUCKER! DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!
BLAAARRGGHH!
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