So I was drivin this huge red Chevrolet convertible car thing, size of a tennis court, and I pulled up at the intercom at the Phully Phat Phizzeria. (Yeah, “Phizzeria”. The ‘h’ is silent. Go figure.)
The like intercom chick has this way breathy voice, and she was like, “We’re here to give you whatever you want”, and I’m all, “So can I have the crépinettes de volaille au périgueux, with, like, french fries, and hey, some Moët for now and we’ll see about something sensible to drink later.”
And this chick was like, “Et Chandon! That’s so cool,honey! We’ll be right out.”
And, HOT DAMN! In about 0 seconds these three blonde chicks come zipping out on roller skates, each one holding up a tray, except for the plump one with the ice bucket and champagne, and they’re like fully naked, and they skate pink girlie circles round my car, and while I’m scoping them and thinking, like Fine muscles, and most bodacious breastworks you have, ma’ams, they’re singing this totally hot song that goes, “I’m gonna take you in my tunnel of lurve and rock you all night,/And when we said George Bush was a moron, were we right or were we right?”, and I realise, like hey, these are totally the Dixie Chicks.
And I’m all, “Hey, chicks, I appreciate that I’m a hot guy and that, on a good hair day with backlighting and stuff, but are you sure it’s me you want to entertain in your furry-thatched little love tunnels?”
And like Martie, the sensible one, goes, “Well, this is your order for chicken and chips and fizzy, or isn’t it?”
And I was all like, “Yeah, that was totally me, and I’m fully not complaining, I’m just saying all this seems unlikely.”
And she’s like, “Well, meh.”
So I’m still all, “You sure you got the right guy, here?”
And then Natalie, with the champagne, says, “Look, Jaime do you usually own a big red Chevvy?”
And I’m like, “Hey, Natalie, my car is like totally a Honda Civic. I can’t explain the Chev. Whatsoever.”
She says, “Well, think about it. Or not.” And then Natalie’s all pouring herself into the car and pouring champagne over her breasts, and jamming my face where the foam rivulets, and then the other girls get in, cause it’s a front seat like as wide as that greengrocer with his finger on the scales in the Walthamstow market, and it’s gleaming streaming titties and pussies and close harmony singing of politically progressive songs everywhere, like, dudes and ‘ettes.
Warpaint are cool.
And I’m thinking about whether Natalie likes doggy style, or whether I should take her even doggier, up The Road Less Travelled, and if I could make a Natalie/Nates joke, and I hear rumbling, and I look out, and those are Warpaint, all naked except for the dab of shaving foam that Wendy O Williams used to wear, but they’re sharing it, and they’re pushing this ginormous pool table with, you know, huge pink pillows on it.
And I’m like –
To be continued. (Probably.)