I kept telling my dear fried Becky that this was going to be a great year and she kept reminding me that, well, sometimes greatness looks more like the interior of an MRI machine.
As anyone who has been reading this blog for more than a few seconds knows, I have been writing a musical called Ghetto Opera and I am knee deep in songs and stories and all sorts of fun stuff, but of late, I have lost my intense passion for the entire mess. I needed a muse, or two.
It's not like I was praying for a muse, or two, but I knew, for me to continue and finish the musical, I would need something new in my neighborhood to propel the story.
This week a trio of strippers moved in across the street.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to that big church like building down the street and praise Jesus.
Without pics, these are not strippers. In fact, best guess, figments of your warped imagination.
ReplyDeleteIf you could only see dear Pic-Man. Low slung blouses, hip hugging sweat pants with Pink written on their butts, carrying bags of stripper clothing and cigarettes as they seductively move in.
ReplyDeleteI could take pictures, but what's the fun of that?
Get a room
ReplyDeleteYou live across from strippers and you can't be bothered to take a single picture? Why is that? Can't hold the camera with one hand? ZINGGGGGGG
ReplyDeleteSo that's where the strippers live.
ReplyDeleteLame
ReplyDelete