Communist Chicken

There's this ad on TV at the moment where a guy takes a date to Red Rooster for a 'real lunch'. I think the ad is quite misleading. For one the girl seems like a normal civilian and doesn't appear to be hurting in the face. I think the only type of girl that would be up for a hot date at Red Rooster is one with super low expectations. Maybe that's why the guy is so happy. He doesn't have to do anything to impress her, all he needs to do is push BBQ chicken onto her.

"Have a Salty Burger" he will say and playfully slap it on the top as though it is her buttocks.

If she lifts the lid of said burger he will say "ooooh!" and push out his lips like someone whistling through a Fruit Loop.

He will slightly fellate his chicken roll. She will not notice so he will do it more obviously and almost gag getting the attention of a sweaty boy in gum boots cleaning the aluminum fry well.

Afterwards they could go back to his duplex and have sex on empty pizza boxes in front of some motor sport and she'd be talking to her friends about how she felt like she was in Paris.

That's what Paris is actually like. It's all sex in ashtrays and streets full of prophylactics. I haven't been there but I've pretty much figured it out. People drink orange juice mixed with milk (I saw a French man do this once - vis a vis they all do it) and they let their dogs crap on the road. They don't have Red Rooster but they have something called Rosi Coque which translates to Pink Penis. Le' disgusting.

The Art Of Useless Wooden Toy

I have dedicated quite a chunk (think a fist of warm Gruyere - yellow waft and milky heft) of my time recently to skateboarding. And when I say skateboarding I mean skateboard media more so than actual, physical skateboarding. Although I did go for a skate twice today and pretended I was Brian Anderson steady crushing. Although where Brian would loft a tre I would awkwardly flap a shuvit. Besides that - on point. The pointietest point. Sharp like Global steel.

As I find myself in somewhat of a slight job void (management speak) this week I spend time watching limitless clips and devotedly reading threads that denounce Koston as a bitter schizoid that's been tweaked by Steve Berra and the Church of Scientology.  It's a million types of boring and interesting at the same time- like eating bread really slowly after smoking a bucket when you're 16. I'm also aware each time a pro is sighted skating a different board, the next puke colourways Nike SB will gurge, and who got the boot from a hardware company. It's need to know shit.

I remember rolling the legs up on my jeans and trying to kickflip off the verandah that Mum said was never to be skated on. Just like the Muska I broke that off something proper. I also cracked some tiles and de-rooted a few shrubs. That's the price Mum paid for me getting stuff done. I was out there on the driveway trying to come up.

In closing;

Skateboarding rules. Fuck everything.