Just for Fun!

Slim Jeans.

I shall never wear a pair of skinny jeans. It's against everything I am.

Well no, not really, I have on an occasion tried on a pair of skinny jeans. Yelling, rolling around in TopMan's ample fitting room trying to fit that sorry excuse for a clothing around my plush tush. Pulling and dragging the blasphemy of a clothing, I realized to my pain that it's waist band only fit one of my thighs. I shall forever hate the skinny jean.

Needless to say, I gave up the hope of having my perfectly toned legs on display for the female race to gorge their sights upon. Then I started flipping through a GQ magazine, coming across this.

Well, uh... It was something like that. But not exactly. It said something along the lines of

"Back in the olden times, young men used to put themselves through the rigours of the male test that included pushing their legs through torturous garment known as the skinny jean. No more. D1 slim pants."

 I was inspired to get myself a pair of them slim jeans for the wearing. After all, if fashion is based on the rules of self expression and optical illusions, the slim jean would then make my puny little legs look longer. And express that I was a fashion forward, beacon of garment guyishness.

Now I am loathe to put on my black slim jeans in the morning. Specifically because of two things. One, they are tighter than relaxed fit jeans, which are two times looser than slim jeans. I other words, now with the tighter, jean, I have to work twice as hard to put them on each morning. Two, there are buttons instead of a zipper. Sometimes, I fantasize about being able to run freely to uni in my boxers, gliding and skipping ala the "sound of music".

Having said that, I like my slim jeans, at least they don't ride up on my thighs, showing my Michael Jackson socks. Maybe it's time to get those low slung sissy socks too.

Tic Tock.

Brussel Sprouts marching to brussels.

Lilacs in the air.

Giants chewing on mussels.

Me chewing a pear.


Why these ( pause for rhythm) lines?

I do not know.

But one thing that's for sure.

I've just stubbed my toe.

400.

There were 400 spartans. Over at Thermopylae.

Some place characterized by super yellowish day.

I know you're thinking, 400? That's 100 too much.

You see they're not Spartans, THEY ARE FOUR HUNDRED WORDS LEFT ON MY STINKING STORY I DON'T LIKE TO WRITE BECAUSE IT'S LIKE AN UGLY CHILD I'M FORCED TO LOVE! AUUUUGGHGHHHHH!!!!!

Slippity Wippity Dicklety Doo!

Wince and Wobble, next and crumble. 

Next to stumble, wabble and fumble. 

If you don't geddit, read it and wonder. 

Till your brain farts and blows asunder. 

A Short Dream.

I want to fly first class,

My Breitling leaning out of my jacket sleeve,

The air stewardess smiles at me.

A crystal glass of champagne between my index and thumb,

I look out the window,

It's New York.

Goodnight.

Read Shmead

Rubbing your eyes across the words of a page is never easy. Most books tear into the skin of your eyeballs with each and every word, a complete pain to read. Case in point, the science text book. Your hands pull open the cheaply laminated cover only to be greeted with tissue thin paper with runny ink, flowing into a diatribe of painfully exact words.

Not my idea of fun. 

Then, there are books. Exciting, the shades and colors jump at you from behind every   syllable. The mind runs by a stream of words, leading from suspense to suspense with the eyes running unfettered from sentence to sentence, each idea pouring into the next idea. Easily read, easily understood. A joy. 

I just need to find those books. Someone show me!