We have a confession. A big one.
No Mom, we are not a lesbian with Jude.
We just must confess that we are not made up entirely of roses and oatmeal cream pie filling. And we aren't drunken daisy chains of applesauce or champagne dipped strawberries either. We have a little.... jalapeno in us. Some horseradish. Maybe even a little Tabasco-soaked chicken liver. And today is just one of our Sour Patch Kid days. We are bubblin' over in a whistlin' tea kettle. And feelin' a bit like an irritable and indeterminable dark-force-evil-villain.
But the moral of our Garbage Pail Kid Day tale has something to do with the idea of entitlement. In regard to where one lives. Why is it that if you live in *insert city here* you suddenly morph yourself into a *insert description here* (some examples: heroin-skinny Hipster, too-cool Foolster, pseudo-smarty Smartster, zombie-alien Martian Lady or just a plain old forgot where you were born and raised-Forgetster). Can't anyone, technically relocate, um...anywhere? We admit it, our panties are in bunches right now (please try these if you haven't already, they are The Best). But the truth is we wouldn't mind knockin' some sense back into these address snobbish bungholes. For example:
Iowa City, IA: I live in Iowa City. We have cornfields. Bitches.
St. Louis, MO: I'm from the Lou. So is Nelly.
Kansas City, MO: I'm from Kansas City. We have barbecue. Bitches.
Cape Cod, MA: I live in Cape Cod. Yeah, we invented the drink. Yeah, and those chips.
Chicago, IL: I was raised in Chicago. I've survived the wind, the Bears, and the Cubs. Year after muthafuckin' year. Bitches.
Manhattan, NY: I live in Manhattan. Ha. Do you?
Now don't get us wrong, we understand how school spirit works. We've watched the 'Teen Spirit' vid thousands of times. It's great to be proud of your team and great to wear a sexy cheerleader skirt, according to the late great Kurt. Though, we just can't help thinking sometimes why can't we all just be a blended smoothie of American spirit? A melting pot of free love America soup? Cause like, we're all Yankees here. We're all a bunch of seppos. Why can't we all just get along? Why weren't we around for Woodstock? We want everyone to be happy cohabiting flower children. The hippies so had it right, man.
Alright that's enough. We apologize for our bittersweet symphony soapbox song. Tip us over and pour us out.
*f
2 comments:
you had me at sour patch kid. hello my name is *a. and i'm an addict. a SPK addict.
hi...i thought i might add to my previous post and let you girls in on the most of the most. the puckeriest of the puckers. the delish of the delishousness.
run like little bunnies out to the store and get some xtreme sour patch kids. i know, i know...."xtreme??!!" i usually grimace and give anything XTREME the finger. but these little buddies....are THE MOST. seriously i need some right now!
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