To the chick who referred to our blazing new haircut (thanks Anne) on Friday night as Hitler-hair, we have a bullet-spewing metal cock we'd be glad to let you suck. We look like we have an audition for the Stone Roses tonight, actually, and look v. cute, if we do say so ourselves.
Um, to the girl who was talking to us while literally drooling from a combination of booze and Xanax on Saturday night, and asked us to make out in the Empty Bottle photo booth, we are so glad we abstained. We saw your friends literally carrying you out the door, and we hope everything is all right. If some dude gave you roofies, we hope his fuckstick is in the process of falling off. We are needy, but not THAT needy. We don't have to do the whole Evanston/Oak Park trustfund put-something-in-her-drink pity-bang to feel good about ourselves. Not yet, anyway.
To the folks at Wound Up HQ, sorry about making your parents watch the White Sox DVD during your wife's graduation party. Whoops. A little whiskey and some champagne and we temporarily lose ourselves. Oh, and the cheese was delicious. As Mr. Donohue kept saying to us, "you are going to eat that whole plate, aren't you?" Uh, affirmative.
To the people at Shoe Fetish at Division and Campbell, your Jordans are fake-ass. That laser etching ain't fooling no one. OGFP knows our shoes. We have the realness in our quiver. We have been told that we are wearing what doesn't belong on this earth. We have been told that we are wearing ghosts on our feet. People feel on our shoes that much. We have taken off our shoes and had them passed around the club as if they were some crazy Catholic relic like St. Peter's foreskin or some shit. We were excited as hell, too, to see the shoes you carry. Jordan Fives in aqua/white colorways? Damn! We wanted that shit for the club. Oh well. A little more crilla for the Bloody Mary fund.