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Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 27, 2003 || 12:26 am

Some things:

// I keep forgetting to mention how much I like batgrl’sOut Of Context‘ webthing, as I am a Pop Culture Vulture of the highest order and totally groove on soundbi(y)tes and punchy phrasings and the like. There’s some really great stuff there (I, dear readery-type people, was the proud contributor of the word ‘fuckpuddle’ to this project back in February). Batty is coool, if for no other reason than the fact that she is in the know regarding the Sleestak.

// I like Daily’s Green Demon Margarita Mix because it has no directions on the bottle, despite ample labelspace for same. This says two things to me: It’s as if the folks at Daily’s are loathe to tell me how to mix a margarita, opting instead to let me concoct the drink of my preference and/or strength and/or taste. Our drinkers are smart, they know how they like to imbibe. They don’t need us to tell them that the coffee can burn you or not to hop into the shower with a running hair dryer.

It’s also as if they’re snubbing those that don’t have the wherewithal or knowledge to mix a proper (or, barring that, a suitable) margarita. The Daily’s drinkerperson is hip like that. We know they know and they know they know and that’s all anybody needs to know. Fucking right, boys. I raise my mugarita, complete with purdy-flaky turquoise salt rim and rocks-only-please deliciousness, to you. I heartily dig the fact that you simply put your site addy on the bottle….marketing geared toward the technology-savvy drunkard is sexy, no lie. The recipes, such as the one for brownies (nudge-nudge) and the one for smoked turkey wraps (can you just YELL sexual innuendo, can you??) are quite the fine touch, as well.

// More perplexing than this is the fact that people are moved to comment on it.

// Sick of hiding my light under a bushel. You too?

// I was in Subway earlier tonight, ordering a turkey sandwich (‘No cheese, heavy on the cucumber, baby girl. No, no chips with that, thanks.’) when ‘Pure Moods‘ I own and put it on. Laugh all you must, but it was a gift and I am never one to turn down free music. Unless it’s something along the lines of Jay-Z or some shit (gimmegimmegimme old skool, baybeeee, heavy on the backbeat and the clever twist of rhyme, hold the ‘I’ze a gangsta’ bullshit unless it’s –Rest In Peace, shinytooth man– Eazy E. Okay, and Ice Cube. I’m a fool for that partikalah round man. Him and Method. And maybe a couple others. I’ll stop with the asides now. Really.). So here I sit, cheesing on Ethereal Lite For The Masses. I’m okay with that, despite however it may tarnish your high musical regard of me. And I listen to Little River Band with a great deal of glee.

// You know what I miss? I had a cassette copy of Art of Noise’s self-titled on cassette and in 1996 my friend McCree smashed it in my truck door on accident. I very nearly crumpled there on the pavement, shedding tears. You can’t get that particular album anymore (although I’ve not researched just quite why it was a catalog delete), so if any of you has a line on where I can snag one, even a burned copy, I’d be most grateful. MOST. GRATEFUL.

// You know what else? I’m fucking tired of seeing Norah Jones billed as ‘a Nina Simone’. For phlegm and phuck, there was only one damn Nina Simone (*sniff* restinpeace, Doctor…) and while Norah is talented and I’m sure wonderful as the day is long, she ain’t no Nina.

// Tonight is one of those nights that will most likely culminate in me dancing, prick-tease and sultry, in front of the mirror. For the record, that particular endeavor will end in me touching myself about the naughty bits and sighing.

// Pretzels are damn tasty, stale or not.

// I just found one of my many infamous slips of paper with some sort of notes on it. Thing is, though, I can’t fucking decipher those notes for the life of me.

Here, mebbe you can help. The slip of paper says the following:

-pinholes in tubes
-ok gs murders
wall appliques

The last one was in thick black sharpie marker.&nbsp&nbsp…The hell?

// I wonder how much longer I can soldier on under the guise of Disgruntled White Girltm.

// I have one of those tube-shaped ice trays. I like to use these rodlike ice cubes in my Mugaritastm and pretend that I am inserting sticks of plutonium into my alcohol so that I may be one of the Original Shiny (Shining? All work and no play makes Jack a dull fucking boy.) Happy People.

// In a fabulous trip to Selloutsville, I bought Pledge wipes the other day. The furniture STILL has not magically dusted itself. I were gypped.

// I am so sympatico with my (painfully outdated, short-bus) ‘puter, even in my technotardism, that I can sense when it’s about to go belly-up without any warning. *note to self: bookmark! save!*

And, in closing, I’d like to pose the following question:

Do you really wanna know?

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Oh, She’s an eight ball / She’s a’rollin’ faster than a white wall / She’s got an avalanche packed in a snowball / She’s a losin all the leeches / Like a stone wall / She’s loaded up

She’s the underdog / Gonna take a mighty swipe / At the high hog / While’a sippin on her tricks / In a pitfall / Makin eyes at the girls like bullfrogs / I’m telling you, sir

She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

You’d like her hanging / Like a sneaker on a live wire, dangling / While your Wall Street pockets are jangling / With the hollow jackpot of your rich kid games

It’s a longshot / She’s got the truth and a tongue for a slingshot / But she’s takin’ steady aim / At the bigshots / It’s hard to miss the rolling bullies / On the blacktop / You better watch your turf

She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from / comin’ up from, comin’ up / comin’ up from behind

You had her hanging / Like a sneaker on a live wire, dangling / While your golden-lined pockets were jangling / With the hollow jackpot of your wicked games

She caught your sick lie / It’s creepin’ in the shadow of your white smile / Lurking underneath the cover of your bedroom eyes / Well, you’re greasin’ up the lance for your small-fry

You wanna talk it up, do you? / Well you’re floatin’ like a royal balloon — oh / Your ego’s swollen to the size of the moon, well / I think you found somebody to cut you down to size / Well well

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from behind / She’s comin’ up from behind

Yeah / She’s comin’ up from behind / She’s comin’ up from behind…

// Marcy Playground, “Comin’ Up From Behind”

5 worked it out »

  1. Nancy 4.27.2003

    finally, someone who gets it about Nina ;-)

    just visiting from the wonderful ms. entropy

     
  2. Jay 4.27.2003

    Damn right about Nina Simone!

     
  3. Unxmaal 4.27.2003
     
  4. guatemalan insantity peppers!!!

    yesterday i did the following things:

    ++listened to Orinoco Flow and reminisced about how my siblings used to play it til i cried {it still pisses me off}

    ++triumphantly threw an Art of Noise CD across the room as it has been mussing up the top of my otherwise pristine flashing-lights-in-8-colours-whirlygig-demo-give-it-one-arm-and-call-it-a-bandit stereo for “too long now”

    ++watched a Norah Jones concert and let out a resounding “woppwaah” fog-horn style. tres average indeed.

    ++commented to Mother that “isnt this Warratahs nonsense just The Little River Band on drugs?”

    Please do not tell me next that you also did a programming assignment and got a ride to work with your dad, or else you actually WILL be living my life.

     
  5. batty 4.28.2003

    And I’m still all aglow with the addition of fuckpuddle to my life too! I’m so sheltered. I had never heard of asshat until recently. However fuckpuddle nearly made soda come out my nose. So it’s much superior. Heh.

     

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