Scaring the Sh*t Out of Myself. - Lately I've become something of a fetishistic consumer of true crime. Yeah, I used that phrase. It started with Serial, Season One. It continued with the...
Friday, August 20, 2010
My name is...
It's not easy having a horse head. If I was back in ancient Greece, the centaurs would have felt me. Egyptian gods had animal heads. I could have been revered, fu%#ing worshiped.
Instead I'm a freak. My shirts have to button or zip up. I can't find shades or hats that fit. But I make it work.
I am the party. I'm all people talk about. I can walk up behind a chick and mack the shrimp kabob off her plate over her shoulder before she's wise.
I drink Carlsberg because it has an elephant on it. I dig products with large mammals on the labels.
If you sport a horse head on a human body you only need one name. I'm level with Madonna, Prince and Silver.
I'm coming to your neighborhood. Your backyard cookouts, poetry readings, off track betting, laser tag tournaments. I have mad DJ abilities; like my boy MCA, "I've got the skills to pay the bills."
I don't buy Vanilla Ice re-making himself as a hardcore rocker, though I do rock the convertible Mustang.
Photo by AFP.