Ladies and gentlemen, the camel toe...
Living in New York City has it's moments of affirming just why one loves it here amoungst the filth and the starlite. The other night I found myself in the company of some performative hipsters. After all the singing and dancing, there was carrying on at an afterparty.
I love an afterparty, in fact I think I live for it.
While bathing in the afterglow of entertainers with some really nice and really expensive drinks,I took in the moment. I particularly liked the fact that my cognac was served in a rather thick, heavy, square shaped glass, and I had asked for cognac on the rocks, causing my hipster friends shriek and recoil in horror, but I don't care, I liked the way it's cold and the square glass made me feel like I was drinking out of a giant, hollowed out ice cube. I was too busy being delicous.
But I digress..
While previously on stage during the performace, one luminary had remarked that his pants were yellow, to which the host of the evening's entertainment replied that the color was now referred to as camel. Now, at the afterparty, my hipster enclave brought up the pants again-I guess everyone loves talking about pants as much as I do.
Soon, it became like playing the game telephone, except it was like playing telephone with Madonna, and you are both drunk. Out of a cloud of smoke appeared Kiki, love her, to call Mr. Yellow Pant out:
"Darling, you have a camel toe!"
His response was an embrace: "A camel toe, I wish!"
It was camel toe envy.
2 comments:
Just so you know, a camel toe can also be reffered to as "smuggling yo-yos"(copyright KB 1997) I currently refer to a camel toe on a larger size gal as a "moose knuckle" which is appropriate and warranted not only because I live in a state where some of the bigger gals embrace the full throttle camel toe, but it's the same state where there are MOOSE CROSSING warning signs along the interstate. Seriously. It all just seems to make sense of nonsense, which is hard to come by when it's minus 10 outside, even with the sun shining. I may die of boredom, academia overload and a heart attack brought about by waiting, somewhat impatiently, at my mailbox everyday at 4PM for a decision from Smith. Until the weather gets warmer or I find out if Smith is, as the street kids say, FEELING me, I am nothing but a bipolar bear. And yes, you can use that if the need presents itself.
I sit. I wait. And Iisten to The Waterboys and bang out quippy & vitriolic essays that my history professor is compelled to forward to Bernie Sanders, and leave comments on your blog at odd hours. Because that's how I roll.
I'm sorry. Can you repeat the question?
Go Smith Cougars!
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