03 December 2001
While My Guitar Gently Fails To Give
Listen, I don't ask for much in this life.
A cushty web job where I'm paid to spunk my thoughts up the wall and don't
get fifteen minutes knocked off my timesheet for sneaking out for a fag
with the girl from the post room. Never to do reception work again, and
every single recruitment agency worker who's ever offered me reception
work to be smashed to a fucking stain with a cricket bat. Skinny Mike
to be my aerobics teacher for EVER. Free botox in my feet so I can wear
heels and feel no pain. Adulation at all times save where it is cruelly
withheld as part of an elaborate sexual tease. Pole-dancing lessons. That's
not so much to ask. So why can't someone take my idea for MOP SHOES and
run with it? It's just ideas, you know, shareware. Open source. Have it.
It's a gift. Make millions, I don't care. I feel like I've spent my life
mopping the fucking floor, you know, and i really don't see why someone
Plastics, I'm talkin' to you - can't make some shoes with big towelling
soles specially designed to dry the floor off after you've finished mopping
it. S'easy, guys. A big wire frame, yeah - snowshoes, essentially - and
thick, towelling or cloth soles to shuffle around in once you're done.
Put a record on, skate around the floor shaking the booty, and you're
fuckin bingo. It's just a step away from that thing you designed in 1997,
Lakeland Plastics, which my grandma has got, shaped like a broom but covered
in cloth, that you rub across the floor once you're done. You're so nearly
there. C'mon, take my idea and boogie with it, wild and free, like a mountain
loin. Or lion. A mountain loin-cloth, slipped from the agile hips of a
boy raised by wolves. Y'getme? Get to it, 'Stics.
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