So check it. I get an email with this subject line “Hey bro, ready for the weekend?” And I’m all “SHIT YEAH! That’s gotta be my boy Franklin about to drop some choice Fri-Sat-Sun nugs of fun, yo! Maybe some brews at Twin Peaks watching the UFC fight and oglin’ some waitresses, or our Pussy Posse strollin’ the streets of Old Town Scottsdale on the hunt for cunt–AMIRITE?”
But TWIST! (And not the sweet kind, like when two chicks in the hotel hot tub start making out.) It’s some company called Lord & Taylor, trying to sell me some fucking linen shirts! (I don’t even know I got on their list!) Now, I have no beef with linen shirts; they’re SO choice when you’re up in the Hampts with your shirt open, surveying the family land like you’re fucking Christopher Columbus and shit, breezes blowing that soft, silky material in the wind like Lion King.
But when you’re ready to get your weekend on, you don’t want to be let down! You know what I’m talkin’ about! So it’s disappointing when you’re ready to bring on the party and the pussy, but you get fooled like a bitch the morning after. Whaddap with that, Lord & Taylor? Whaddap with that.