Consider this a Flashback FY Friday, ’cause dis my $HIT right neow! That guitar riff at the beginning is BEGGING “LOOP ME”. I might have to sample that in a track I won’t finish producing.
A rapper once said “when I die, bury me with two b*tches”. Well, they don’t make caskets big enough. I’ve asked, mausoleums are a better bet. In China, they’ll get you half-way there.
See, its considered good-luck and a warm farewell to the afterlife for many people to show up to your funeral in some parts. Seeing as some jack-asses need extra coaxing to reply to RSVPs to events of life celebrations, strippers have made bank as of late to attract some stragglers in paying last respects. Beijing is not happy with the baring of this news and is looking to
ass-crack down on it.
So I got an email yesterday (no, not a spam email) from a reader wanting to know if I could spot what was wrong with this potato photo. Well duh. I’m not always a moron. Of course I can tell what the fuck is off about that photo. THERE’S TWO OLIVES LURKING IN IT.
Someone needs to call the cops because those olives are straight up STALKING those potatoes. Look at those little creeps, trying to blend into the background, sneaking around in muted earth tones, hiding amongst their potato idols in their circular camouflage. I’m not going to stand for that shit, Olives. No one invited you to our potato party. If I’m willing to drop that sad, little baby Sweet Potato like an obstetrician with bad hands, do you really think I won’t drop kick your miscreant manzanilla ass out of here?
Did you even ask those potatoes if you could tag along with them? DON’T LIE TO ME OLIVES, YOU DIRTY IMPOSTORS, YOU. No, you didn’t. You just showed up. That’s so not chill. That’s not even close to chill. It’s not hot either. It’s just weird and uncomfortable. DON’T DO THAT.
Someday we might invite you to the party, Olives. But until then, you need to not just show up where you’re uninvited. You need to respect every potato’s personal space. You need to not be creeps. It’s really not that hard to figure out.
If you’ve got potatoes you want me to look at, email them to firstname.lastname@example.org.
LeBron James is better than you at basketball. Yes, you. The person who has the time to read this short, otherwise meaningless post. LeBron is better at basketball than you are. You might have some hot takes on whether or not LeBron could beat MJ or Larry Bird or whoever, and I don’t care. I don’t care about any of your hot takes. I don’t care about hypothetical fantasies. And I don’t care to entertain stupid thought experiments (okay that might be a lie). LeBron James is better than you at basketball. You are Evan Turner. I am Evan Turner. We are all Evan Turner. And LeBron James is better than us at basketball.
Now let me get back to writing about potatoes.