Tuesday, July 11, 2006
This is me trolleyed in a trolley.
You’ll be pleased to know that this occurred in the comfort of our living room, and not in a public area where people could stare and wonder how me, this freak of nature, didn’t make it into the circus. I am singing, into a supersonic decibel-regulated microphone mind you, the Southpark Terence & Philip rendition of Shut Your Fucking Face Unclefucker. The words are charmingly explicit, and I’m sure Mrs Goldberg upstairs nearly ate her own toothbrush out of shock:
Shut your fucking face Unclefucker
You’re a cock sucking ass licking Unclefucker
You’re an Unclefucker
Yes it’s true
Nobody fucks uncles quite like you
You don’t eat or sleep or mow the lawn
You just fuck your uncle all day long
That’s U, N, C, L, E, fuck you, unclefucker!
Suck my balls.
That, and Kyle’s Mom Is A Stupid Bitch, and It’s Easy Mkay. Not a hundred percent on how the trolley ended up in our apartment, or why I am wearing my Lusitoland Vegas showgirl special (See Doc, told you I’d wear it again),
Or even how I got in and out of the trolley after three bottles of wine, shared with my ever willing flatmate, The Ant. (She got in the trolley too, we stood up, sang Annie, then realised she didn’t have hospital plan, so got out hastily before limbs were broken.)
To conclude: you can live a perfectly exciting and booze-filled existence when taking on the role of agoraphobic recluse.
The trolley comes from Checkers. How the fuck?
Went as T’s date to a corporate celebration on Saturday – drank Dom Perignon and went to the loo, only to tuck my satin skirt into my doondies on the way out. And that’s how I waltzed around Assaggi the whole evening. In front of his boss and his lovely wife. I make a great corporate date. I’m available on 555-555-5.
In other news, Cute UnShaven asked me to go to dinner with him this Thursday. I was in two minds about accepting, mainly because I had kinda laughed him off, not hearing from him for a week. But neverthless, I said I would join him, haven't much to lose at this point.
And France lost the fucking World Cup. I almost started crying last night during the nailbiting match. The deal was if Italy won, I have to make Ant my Saumon a la Va Va Voom. (If France won, she had to make me risotto con funghi.) Oh dear.