A Gchat Conversation On Fergie's Single For The New Sex & The City Movie, Based On The Assumption If You Hear It Twice In A Row, You Die.

"I be lookin' for labels, I ain't lookin' for love."-Fergie

"All human actions lead to labels; one must not look for love."-Aristotle


Gabrielle: hahaha
look out crunch
theres a new gym with a retard premise in town!
me: that only plays the Fergie Sex & The City mix and thus kills anyone who practices yoga through two hearings!
Gabrielle: now this is an innovative premise for a horror movie
we are on fire this am!
but seriously
you need to hear that song
if your computer has audio
i suggest you check it out over lunch
its a technicolor nightmare
me: I suggest I check it out right now
Gabrielle: ha ha
me: if I die I want my epitaph to read: Tried To Stop Listening...But Couldn't
Gabrielle: that is a promise i make to you
me: Also: Was A Great Lay (unrelated)
Gabrielle: haha ok
me: or maybe related
okay, here I GO
Gabrielle: im just going to print this whole gchat exchange on your tombstone

11:41 AM me: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
this cannot be real!
"I be lookin for labels I ain't lookin for love!"
"SupercalifragiSexy nothing to complain!"
Gabrielle: "buy a purse and get over it"
i wish it were a hoax
the same way i wanted thast yale girl to be a hoax
me: how am I not going to listen to this twice Moss? YOU SENT ME ON A SUICIDE MISSION!
Gabrielle: i thought you had more self control than this!!!!
me: "I'm gonna shop the labels, while these ladies look for love"
Poor Josh Douche-something
what is he supposed to think about this!
Gabrielle: douche-ham-el, i believe his last name is
im sure its not telling him anything he didnt already know
like that fergie is a dude
etc etc
me: right, cuz the second verse was
That's what I was going to say!
"shopping for labels, to cover my dick"
Gabrielle: hahahaha
i liked when she rhymes "tuckin' my nutsack"
me: AHAHAHAHAHAAHA
Gabrielle: with "prada sample sale in the back"
me: I like when she rhymes "Manolo shoes" with "Suck me Dude"
Gabrielle: yeah, im pretty sure this song will get a grammy
if not a pulitzer
shes pretty much the doris lessing of our times
me: I'm going to give it a Pulz-Her if you know what I mean
totes true, same incontinence problems
Gabrielle: i wish this movie was out today
me: Jesus Christ, me too. Sigh. Me too.

Where's Your Head When The Biscuit Blows?

We must, in the next place, investigate the subject of the dream, and first inquire to which of the faculties of the soul it presents itself, i.e. whether the affection is one which pertains to the faculty of intelligence or to that of sense-perception; for these are the only faculties within us by which we acquire knowledge. -Aristotle

Two nights ago, after an enjoyable viewing of Street Kings, I laid myself down to rest, fully exhausted and ready to succumb to sleep. My full surrender to the unconscious did not happen as quickly as I would have liked, but sure enough eventually it came, in the form of a Pillsbury Biscuit commercial, played on a loop.

I was told earlier this week after beginning some new medication that an often seen side effect was vivid, imaginative dreams. This may be superfluous information-- it depends if you call advertisements for a major dough corporation imaginative or not.
Though I've never had a dream that just simply consisted of a commercial, with no outer story arc or explanation. This in itself may qualify as creative in a post-modern Don DeLillo shrinking-boundary-between-reality-
and-commercialism kind of way.

Anyhow, the dream: A child appeared at the kitchen counter, Pillsbury biscuit tube in hand, ready to bake. She started peeling off the label. It was the frightful kind of biscuit tube-- the ones you have to peel and peel bracing yourself for the inevitable "POP!" that sometimes comes after a quarter-inch, other times after three full rotations. The camera is doing a close-up on her hands as she's peeling, then "POP!", the camera pans up and the circular metal top is embedded in the child's forehead--right between the eyes (my brain influenced here by Street Kings, I'm sure)-- blood trickles down her dazed face and then the major-keyed, soul chorus-led jingle starts:

"WHERE'S YOUR HEAD WHEN THE BISCUIT BLOWS? WHERE'S YOUR HEAD WHEN THE BISCUIT BLOWS?"

Then a male spoken voice: "A friendly reminder from Pillsbury to keep your head back when making our delicious, buttery biscuits."

Hot or Not?

The first What-George-Clooney-Would-Look-Like-With-A-Horrible-
Case-Of-Herpes photo shoot, and you know what? The man still emerges VICTORIOUS. Your better sense says "No, contagious!" but your vag still says: "Yes. Yes. Yes."

NICELY done.

Because the last Apaturd cultural contribution this world needs, in addition to the previous lessons that boys are only good as stoned funnymen and girls are only good as neurotic penis receptors, is that it's somehow funny or okay to insult a woman's body out of break-up spite. YOUNG GIRLS ARE FUCKED UP ENOUGH ALREADY. Seriously, dude, I'll grudgingly accept your radical notion that fat male stoners are infinitely fuckable, but that a woman with a perfect body is fat? FUCK YOU.

AWESOMENESS VS. SALMONELLA RISK

The Bacon Bra. Let your breasts decide.