Thursday, June 30, 2005
Filth
Soundtrack: "All About Chemistry" by Semisonic
Good evening this evening again.
So, yesterday was pretty weird. Elaine used to work full-time at this designed boutique in town called Miss Gladys Sym Choon, and they had their VIP winter sale last night, so they drafted her in as extra help. She asked me to come along in case I picked up any decent bargains, and I did. I got myself a designed dress for $20, reduced from over $100 or something absurd like that, and a pair of plastic shoes, $39 reduced from $109. 16 quid for Italian shoes ain't bad. I turned up at 6.10pm, ten minutes after the doors opened, and that place was completely packed: shopping war. Scary stuff.
I met up with Blake afterwards. He was in the menswear department next door, and he took a bloody age to decide what to get, and he even took my notoriously dodgy fashion advice. Admittedly, it was that he should give the cargo pants a miss, but then I would say that, because I like Franz Ferdinand, and therefore, I like pinstripe skinny trousers. Blake WAS going to give me a lift home (on the motorbike, because he couldn't be arsed to look for a park for the Shitmobile), but we spotted something going on at the shop across the road.
The shop's name is Naked, and we soon realised this when we walked in, noticed a distinct lack of women, apart from the topless waitress handing out free Coronas. [Bytheway, I've only just found out that you take Coronas with lime because the lime's meant to keep the flies away.] We were just harmlessly looking at some clothes when the topless waitress walked past us, and said to Blake: "Can I help you with anything?"
"Er, no," he stuttered.
"He was just looking at your breasts," I said cheerfully. They were rather large breats, after all.
"Are you his girlfriend?" she asked me.
"No!" I exclaimed, disgusted.
She grabbed Blake's hand and shoved it onto her left breast. He stood around grinning and telling random guys who he'd never met about what had just happened. This was until the manageress cleared the shop floor and everybody stood around the side to wait for the stripper. Apparently, she's Miss World Nude. I saw her advertised outside a club down Hindley Street, so I sort-of believe the surfer dude who told Blake and I this little snippet of information. And she really did take everything off, apart from her thigh-high white boots with see-through plastic platform heels. I've seen far too many vaginas to be impressed, though.
After the strip show, we got talking to the topless waitress again, and somehow got onto the subject of her riding her Harley naked. And then she declared that she never wore underwear?
"Really?" said Blake, incredulous.
She lifted up her miniskirt to show us. Urgh. I wish I'd drunk some of those free Coronas now.
Apparently, this was all a sales ploy, but I'm damned if I saw any of the guys who took advantage of the free booze and sleaze buy any overpriced designer clothes.
Good evening this evening again.
So, yesterday was pretty weird. Elaine used to work full-time at this designed boutique in town called Miss Gladys Sym Choon, and they had their VIP winter sale last night, so they drafted her in as extra help. She asked me to come along in case I picked up any decent bargains, and I did. I got myself a designed dress for $20, reduced from over $100 or something absurd like that, and a pair of plastic shoes, $39 reduced from $109. 16 quid for Italian shoes ain't bad. I turned up at 6.10pm, ten minutes after the doors opened, and that place was completely packed: shopping war. Scary stuff.
I met up with Blake afterwards. He was in the menswear department next door, and he took a bloody age to decide what to get, and he even took my notoriously dodgy fashion advice. Admittedly, it was that he should give the cargo pants a miss, but then I would say that, because I like Franz Ferdinand, and therefore, I like pinstripe skinny trousers. Blake WAS going to give me a lift home (on the motorbike, because he couldn't be arsed to look for a park for the Shitmobile), but we spotted something going on at the shop across the road.
The shop's name is Naked, and we soon realised this when we walked in, noticed a distinct lack of women, apart from the topless waitress handing out free Coronas. [Bytheway, I've only just found out that you take Coronas with lime because the lime's meant to keep the flies away.] We were just harmlessly looking at some clothes when the topless waitress walked past us, and said to Blake: "Can I help you with anything?"
"Er, no," he stuttered.
"He was just looking at your breasts," I said cheerfully. They were rather large breats, after all.
"Are you his girlfriend?" she asked me.
"No!" I exclaimed, disgusted.
She grabbed Blake's hand and shoved it onto her left breast. He stood around grinning and telling random guys who he'd never met about what had just happened. This was until the manageress cleared the shop floor and everybody stood around the side to wait for the stripper. Apparently, she's Miss World Nude. I saw her advertised outside a club down Hindley Street, so I sort-of believe the surfer dude who told Blake and I this little snippet of information. And she really did take everything off, apart from her thigh-high white boots with see-through plastic platform heels. I've seen far too many vaginas to be impressed, though.
After the strip show, we got talking to the topless waitress again, and somehow got onto the subject of her riding her Harley naked. And then she declared that she never wore underwear?
"Really?" said Blake, incredulous.
She lifted up her miniskirt to show us. Urgh. I wish I'd drunk some of those free Coronas now.
Apparently, this was all a sales ploy, but I'm damned if I saw any of the guys who took advantage of the free booze and sleaze buy any overpriced designer clothes.
