Sunday, April 25, 2010

Unicorn Tears and Bret Michaels

Last night this folk singer in a studded belt with the periodic table tattooed on his arm brought an actual jug of 'shine, only an hour old. He took a sip in front of us, to show us we wouldn't die, and declared it tasted like water trapped in crystal. Then the law student tried it, and named it Unicorn Tears. And I said he should bottle it with that name and sell it outside the vegan bar. Then he poured some in my champagne, and that my friends, is how you make a Unicorn Tears Martini.

Yesterday, upon hearing of Bret Michaels' hospitalization due to brain explosion, I made the following suggestion: that if he dies, VH1 should replace him with David Byrne. Alan suggested they could call it Byrning Love.

Think how different that man's life would have been if he'd been named Bert.

So last night, the Unicorn Tears made me dream that I was on a date with Bret, and almost had sex with him, but then decided I would never be able to have sex with anyone else, because I would be dirty. So then we went to get in my car, only Bret wouldn't, because he was so disgusted with how dirty the floor of my car was, and told me I was a slob. He refused to get in the car. I woke up convinced Bret Michaels had died in his sleep, read my twitter, and decided to haunt me in my dreams and humiliate me. But he hasn't died, so I can only conclude that he is haunting me from whatever drug induced coma he's in. And also that I need to clean my car.

6 comments:

  1. YOU MADE BRET MICHAEL'S BRAIN EXPLODE.

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  2. *looks knowingly at Tila Tequila...*

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  3. I'm reeling. Seriously. What if his name had been Bert?! What if Paris Hilton had been named Des Moines? Shit. I have to go make sure gravity works.

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  4. Des Moines Hilton. She'd probably have a cooking show. Or a dog grooming business.

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  5. I would have thought he would get off on a dirty car. He gets off on dirty chicks, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't washed his wig in a while.

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  6. Turns out Bret is a tad bit OCD. And he didn't appreciate the stale french fry lodged between the seats and my empty cigarette packs.

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Who wants to fuck the Editors?