![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I was sitting down when I got the news...
Apr. 17th, 2003 12:33 pmI might be interviewing Radiohead and getting backstage passes for a concert of theirs in June...
Apr. 17th, 2003
I should Be so Coco
Apr. 17th, 2003 10:29 pmI’m going to buy a lottery ticket tomorrow. This good luck must mean something: that I’ll be the next John Pesci, covered in gold chains; that I’ll be Rio in an 80s yacht; that I’ll be the nobody that everyone has heard about; that I’ll kick the sky and be alright.
It’s easy once you own 10 million pounds. My body jerks on the side walk, someone rushes to save me and squeals: “it’s that guy who had a lucky week, winning the lottery just before Easter!”
Before Access Hollywood comes knocking on my door, get the scoop: ask me whatever you want. Ask me why the Dolphins swim and shit won’t sink. Ask me what kind of magic comes pouring out of my faucet. Or perhaps you want to know if my skin has been dulled by too many chocolate eggs. No, I get dehydrated with too much choco… that’s all. But don’t stop yourself. Ask, ask away. Drag me like a hooker’s leg caught by a truck as it pulls away from the Texaco station. Grill me like expired Summer sausages. Make it work, but on me.
I’m feeling lucky, like the Marlboro Man (before he died of lung cancer.)
Or Joe Camel (before he was too bad for the kids.)
Or any of the gals in the backcovers of Cosmo, holding a slim Virginia Lights.
It’s easy once you own 10 million pounds. My body jerks on the side walk, someone rushes to save me and squeals: “it’s that guy who had a lucky week, winning the lottery just before Easter!”
Before Access Hollywood comes knocking on my door, get the scoop: ask me whatever you want. Ask me why the Dolphins swim and shit won’t sink. Ask me what kind of magic comes pouring out of my faucet. Or perhaps you want to know if my skin has been dulled by too many chocolate eggs. No, I get dehydrated with too much choco… that’s all. But don’t stop yourself. Ask, ask away. Drag me like a hooker’s leg caught by a truck as it pulls away from the Texaco station. Grill me like expired Summer sausages. Make it work, but on me.
I’m feeling lucky, like the Marlboro Man (before he died of lung cancer.)
Or Joe Camel (before he was too bad for the kids.)
Or any of the gals in the backcovers of Cosmo, holding a slim Virginia Lights.