It’s Friday, Jeff. And considering how we’ve weathered a week of technical talk about signs and signifiers and such, we thought maybe —
— yeah, well, you thought wrong.
Seems having your shell “bedazzled” is not only surprisingly expensive, but it requires that you lie mostly still and belly down for a couple three hours even after leaving the salon.
So not only did I spend the better part of the evening spoonfeeding the bastard his DQ Butterfinger Blizzard, but I did it while watching red white and blue-colored rhinestones harden into an American flag with a peace sign for stars — all because the horny little fuck got it in his head that he simply must get into the sundress of some scrubbed-face Berkeley chick who just joined book club.
Which, right. Like she’s not a lesbian anyway.