Hi. Misplace something?
Listen, whatya say we throw on our caftans, make a bee-line for the beach-side tiki bar and order a mai-tai or seven in a dirty coconut? Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? We KNOW!
So here's the shizzle-dizzle. We were in high school when "Boy" was released. It fit our surly 16-year-old, angst-ridden aesthetics to a tee. We saw U2 play Red Rocks, one of the best concerts ever. When you warned us that should we decide to "walk-away-walk-away," you'd most likely "follow," we were okay with it. And although there's something faintly insufferable about anyone who'd rename themselves "good voice" in Latin, we nevertheless tolerate your pretentious op-eds in the NY Times in which you remind us you're a soulful genius who cares about Africa and stuff.
But Bono. Bono-Bono-Bono. Were we to take a beach stroll and encounter a sperm whale fondling itself, we'd "run-away-run-away," and if it were to "follow" we'd call security and have you tazed.
Sadly, after lo these many years, you Still Haven't Found What You're Looking For; because unless what you're looking for is ball sweat, crab lice or jock itch, you're unlikely to find it down the front of your Target Big-n-Tall board trunks.
The thing is, anyone with a penis knows that several times daily it becomes necessary to do a little nad-juggling. Things get twisted, itchy, mushed, discombobulated and outa-whack; and sometimes the only remedy is a full frontal crotchular expedition. But one does not go testicle wrangling on a public beach in full view of the paps. Jesus, Mary and Jehoshaphat! Have we learned nothing from Simon Le Bon?
In the name of love, Mr. Vox, un-hand mini-Bono this instant. Drop the chalupa. Do it now so we can discuss that overly-yeasted loaf of back-fat rising from your shorts and making a break for the border. Do you you hate our ability to see?
You look like (pick one):
- Gene Hackman IS James Lipton in an ill-fated bio-pic called "Inside the Actor's Underoos"
- You've embarked upon an eeling expedition in lake paunch-ertrain
- You're scraping barnacles from the hull of the USS Augustus Gloop
- Moby Dick, preparing to brandish his pants-harpoon
- Your shorts have been inexplicably annexed by Pillsbury to manufacture pop-n-fresh biscuit dough
- Your Prince Albert has become painfully wedged in your taint ring
- You've tragically misunderstood the concept of "going crabbing"*
- Bloody hell.
* a recycled joke we enjoyed making at Mr. Le Bon's expense, deemed worth repeating
Bono sez: "I will subscribe to this blog's feed, with or without you."