KB
What do you think it's like being a roadie?
Well, you'd get to smoke spice with Third Eye Blind.
So then it'd be chill when you collapse into a dissociative fugue state & bust the Fender Amp you were carrying for the nineteenth time that tour?
Terminally chill, actually,, but hey...you're doing your level breast, because, at that point, the K2 has you pretty casually paralyzed. Things are getting a tiddy bit nipply but hey...you're doing your level breast ain't ya?
Christ. You are truly a misogynistic cretin.
Misogynistic Cretin...those guys opened up for Goth Owen Wilson at Vulcan, right?
You’re thinking of Donny Cornbread, who was at Emo's to support Butterscotch Stallion & The Seasick Cowboy.
Dude, I could have sworn My Interesting Lady Friend played with them at Mohawk.
Because you were at Empire taking Rumple Minze shots with the keyboardist from Grundle Punch.
I guess that explains why he drunkenly RKO’d that mom of three halfway thru their set.
Nah, that was the drummer from Corduroy Mutton Chops.
I'm pretty sure it was Denim Haircut.
Man, did they shred some gnar or what?
Couldn't tell ya.
I was too busy paying $23 for two Pacifico’s after asking the bartender for his greasiest selection of beers.
I don't blame him. He could probably smell the gentrification pouring out from you.
Why am I being attacked for my middle-class privilege when I apply it less liberally than you do Bod For Men?
Holy shit. Is that a joke from 2012? Hey, Chump Skylark! Don't forget to turn in your book report for "The Fault In Our Stars."
So we're gonna pretend like John Greene didn't lay it down harder than Gangnam Style?
Honestly, I should have been a young adult author.
Imagine being in the pitch room for that nonsense.
"Guys, what if..."
"We're listening."
"...I fall in love."
"Go on."
"& then..."
"Yeah?"
"...I die????"
"Non! C'est impossible!"
"Fin."
This is exactly what happens when we cut after-school programs for delinquent & disaffected youth.
We really gotta stop the dyslexic mafia from spreading doomsday prophecies to Boomers on Facebook.
Hear ye! Hear ye! I micro-dosed at the farmer's market for the first time last weekend & guess what?
I unlocked the sixth dimension.
The what?
Now I'm here to tell you heathen scum about the government's plan to turn your halfwit children & their pet frogs GAY through the power of chem-trails.
Fuck the chem-trails, baby. Let's get some cocktails.
Good thinking. My exes aren't gonna be drunk-texting themselves after all.
The Mayans had you in mind when they predicted the apocalypse.
Do you think they were craving some margaritas from Baby Acapulco’s & we kinda misread a few key hieroglyphics?
Nothing like well-tequila to celebrate a ritual sacrifice.
Could you imagine botching that shit?
Ma'am, please. There's no need to call my temple supervisor. Because, ma'am, I'm the only one on shift today.
No, you can wait as long as you'd like. Can I interest you in our fine collection of essential oils during this difficult time? Yes, I happened to notice your entrails unceremoniously streaming down the pyramid steps.
Technically, you were supposed to be dead for that part but I'm kinda...taking a self-care day & mailing in the whole knock-you-unconscious-first sequence.
To be completely honest, ma'am, I am really not vibing with you whatsoever. Your attitude is not sparking joy in me. I'm gonna ask you to Marie Kondo your ass off my pyramid.
Do you think that'd fuck up your Yelp reviews?
I think the Mayans missed the memo on pithy passive-aggression. They just stabbed one another with obsidian knives in the streets when having themselves a normal one.
Talk about a Red Dawn Rising.
That is an awful fictional Cold War reference, but yeah, we'll spot you the five centuries & change for the college try.
In my defense, it was one of those names I had heard in passing. I knew I had to shoehorn it into a conversation. I just didn't know how or why or when it was gonna be.
So, your go-to conversational strategy is to drown me in a flood of your out-of-context idiocy?
Aha! The flood expert speaketh! You rocked high-water jeans nearly every day in sixth grade.
What’s your point, bud? It’s called trendsetting.
So, you've never heard of joggers?
Passé. I was tween Voguing like a motherfucker.
You ate Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the parking lot of Kohl's while your mom bought you fitted cargo shorts.
No, I told you that I chiefed blunts with my friend who looked like Cap'n Crunch. It was high fashion.
You were 13. Why were you friends with someone who, I assume, looked like Javert & a human cigarette hybrid?
He wasn't an old man. Just shaped like a box of Kellogg's.
Wait back up. Both cereals can't be called Crunch, can they?
I am genuinely exhausted from being oppressed by our onomatopoeia overlords!
Does your simple mind have no understanding of the Invisible Hand of the free market?
Walk me through that concept again.
I got a one in AP Econ, so correct me if I'm wrong.
When the free market is feeling lonely, it sits on its non-dominant hand until it falls asleep & becomes invisible.
It's a stranger now. So the free market takes the invisible hand out for a couple of drinks on Rainey Street to get to know it better. Afterwards, they share a few laughs & playful asides over a plate of Eggs Zapatino from Magnolia Café. In the Uber home, the Invisible Hand gives the free market a cheeky over-the-pants HJ.
Pulling on the first date, bid.
Bid for sure. Until the free market remembers they booked a Pool & this might affect their rider rating a smidgen.
Do you even bother tipping, or should you just stew in your own shame at that point?
Actually, everyone else has to Venmo you. After all, they're the ones who got the show. Fuck it. You gotta charge that one to the game. How would you score my rundown?
I think you nailed it, man. Oh, but don't forget to blame Saturn for being in retrograde to escape those pesky public indecency charges.
Astrology Twitter has to hate you.
69 Signs He’s Not Gonna Text You Back, Sweaty!
Signs 1 Through 69 -
On y'all's first date, you said I love you & then asked for his exact birth time. Thankfully, he was too busy bumming cigs from some homeless guys to notice.
Classic triple Pisces move right there.
Just jot down halftime nap time & move on. Keep your head up, queen. Find your Juul pod prince & leave the cigs inside.
Cigs Inside...man, I love that band.
