I had a dream last night that I was smoking a joint with President Obama. He had a red bicycle, a beach cruiser that you rent for the day on the Venice Boardwalk, and he was young, just like those pictures of him in college with the straw hat and the cool attitude.
We sat together in the grass by the bicycle, and we each took a long drag, and I asked him, “Seriously, dude. Why the fuck don’t you make this shit legal?”
He put a finger to his lips as if to say, “Shhh.” Then he grinned like the Cheshire Cat, and I suddenly realized that he was telepathically communicating with me. Without moving his lips, I heard him speak two simple words: second term.
You think you shit glitter, but you’re nothing but a fish-lipped dirt squirrel living in a gated community of idiots. You are an emotional vampire with an eating disorder and an adderall addiction. You subsist on celery and chaos. If you ever had a conscience, you got rid of it like a prom night dumpster baby. The botox injection sites on your forehead connect to form the shape of a pentagram. I feel sorry for your hair extensions. May your death involve duct tape.
Part of me wishes that Courtney Stodden was a performance artist, and this is all subversive postmodern commentary on American hegemonic value systems. The other part of me is just glad someone picked up the Anna Nicole Smith torch and ran with it.
Head candy was plentiful at this season’s runway shows, and this item from Burberry is my favorite. The Brits don’t mess around when it comes to fancy-fuck hats and the pom pom on this one keeps the seriousness to a minimum.
I just came across the lovely bags from Cambridge Satchel Company, and I’m loving the neon orange version. If you feel like fancy fucking it up take advantage of their embossing service for a personalized touch.
I hope Lana Del Rey and Tyler the Creator really do work on a project together. I hope Kanye West produces it. I hope Kesha is featured on it. I hope Dov Charney sponsors it. I hope Terry Richardson shoots it. I hope Perez Hilton covers it. I hope Steve Aoki does a remix.
I hope all of these things, and I hope it turns into an orgiastic frenzy of overrated hipster douchebaggery of such monumental proportions that every pop-culture consumer immediately starts recognizing soulless empty-headed mediocrity for what it is, and Coachella goes back to being just one weekend.