by Idaho Chubbs
- One handed artist dude who went one step further than Van Gogh...ON PURPOSE. I like him.
This has been a rough week, not gonna lie. Lots of philosophizing, and reflective contemplation. Sadness bellowing through my ears and out into a Nectar cesspool full of uncertain fate. Why this? Why that? Questions, questions, questions. Some answers are there but it's never enough. It will never be enough. Distract, distract, distract, relidge, relidge, relidge. Let's forget our insignificance, or let's bask in it, or let some big entity be the big cheese and we'll be his lackey or let us be the center of the entire fucking universe! My universe, MINE. You sloors are just living in it, and I am the sloor to your Chubbs as well. Soo....??? Death, life, unrequited ambition, lack of it, wanting, but not working, OH THE DEPRESSION. "Voltaire Understudy Thomas" told me this week that ARMY practices consist of him trying not get shot by fiery artillery ants pulsing through a starry night sky as he crawls 200 push-up yards with his trusty hand-rifle-kill-toy. Apparently his fingers have six-packs now. Ah, what we do to remind ourselves of what it is to live on this watery land globe full of tangible shit that keeps us alive and distracted but in the end means nothing, except to those who still live here and share in that confusion. This can't be it, this IS IT, I'm important, I'm the opposite of important. What does it matter? Oh it fucking matters! Hmmm, let's do some whimsical communing, distract, or maybe coincidentally "LIVE" "LIFE"...
Three Days had passed since The NCAA and Pontius Pilate had executed Masoli. During this entire time, T2000 "worked" at opening his tomb. "T" is a terminator robot, but he is vastly out of shape from suckling on summer ale nectar tanning lotion for the past five months. He didn't even want to aid me in bringing the famed artist QB back from Hades until I enticed him with a Fashion Week god-alfull...ly creative Virginia Tech form-fitting jersey. I, on-the-other-hand, had descended into Hades right after Jeremiah had cried, "NCAA why have you forsaken me", meeting him at the edge of The River Styxx, explaining that he had an impossible fourth chance procured by yours truly. This did not compute. He was most forlorn, hopeless, whining about how traditional Ole' Miss's uniforms were, and how it was the only school that had football and a grad program for his true passion of parks and recreational use of Nectar grass; so he had no choice but to attend. They also didn't have one billion different Bowser-alien-Pygar uniform combinations like his undergrad alma mater Oregon, or his much beloved Prefontaine throwbacks. I took this in, silent as a ghost, unselfishly laboring not to relate this back to me and how I might have experienced something similar in my life in someway, verbally (which I'm prone to do. See I'm working on it). My success in this personal mental evolution promptly prompted me to then devolve, and smack Masoli across the face with Betty Draper swiftness ("I'll cut off all your fingers and then I'll put you in a dark closet with Mad Glen playing the part of your dead grandfather. Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you, you "Mad Barber" of Fleet Street, Sterling, Cooper, Draper, Price!?"). "Get ahold of yourself Masols. I have taken care of everything."
Right before the crucfixion, special unis for ten prolific college football programs debut at Fashion Week. After a vigorous, arousing and often penalty laden game of nocturnal flag football, with Klum, Seal, all of the Ford models, the Olsen twins, Ledger's Joker ghost, some rag & bone B list actresses, Victor Ward, Lagerfeld, Tim Gunn and Anna Wintour and The Sartorialist splitting time as Automatic QB on the Versaille-like Bryant Park lawn, I adjourned with Mr. "This Concerns Me" and "Dr. Strangelove Karl" back to The Plaza Hotel, where we strategized the format for our Fantasy College Football Draft. To their dismay, Jeremiah was nowhere to be found. They had not heard the terrible news due to their busy schedules and Michael Irvin's constant nagging about MCing the college football uni runway show and how "THE U" and Jacory were going to "out-money" OSU and Terrelle Pryor simply because they had more green in their sports playing attire. Legitimate excuses aside I assured them that Masoli would come back to the surface once again if they could find a way to create another magical special treat uniform for Ole' Miss. The new contemporary piece of artful sports fabric would be the entire key to everything. Not only would Houston Nutt have no choice but to don it once or twice this season, but the NCAA would gain more exposure, more money (which is their life blood), and so would whoever designed them. After I had said this I noticed Lagerfeld dosing off a bit, convulsing from his 11th glass of scotch in 2 hours, his right glove loosening slightly, exposing the intricately woven metal that made up the innards of his constantly leather clad wrist and hands. "KARL!" I bellowed. "Come on!" "What?" He said, looking confused. "I heard you're plan and I know just the right company for the job. They're stuff is cheaply made, but it always looks super cool, like, Kevlar cool."
"Are you saying that G-Star is going to make Netherlandian Dark Knight Couture for SEC football?" delighted Masoli. "Indeed", I purred. "Nike was too expensive and their designs were lacking, although they did take some risks which worked for the Alabama jerseys, but not so much for Miami, no matter how much Michael Irvin gushed over their resemblance to USA paper currency. With creativity, you have to know the world you're working in. You have to have a little recklessness, you have to take risks to find something new, or something that might not be new, but a fusion of old oddities/ideas bopping around in your brain that you never consciously put together but just now did through your subconscious, through physical movement, as a product, to see, to touch, to know--even the constant moving of just your hands to sew, or write or draw, triggers these wonders...but you also have to know what is traditionally sound and what works, what should stay and not be changed. This is the constant balance that is incredibly difficult to achieve while navigating the formation of something truly special and hopefully timeless." I paused, "So you can understand why I could never endorse those abomination Oregon uniforms now, maybe, just a bit...don't you? JM nodded with a joyfully forgiving tear, gave me a manly arm-clasp, informed the ferryman Charon he would not be making the death voyage, flipped him a couple fifty cent pieces anyway, and said, "Let's do this." As soon we left to meet up with "T" at the tomb, Masoli inquired to when the new unis would be ready. I replied, "Not till after the first game. But you're playing some scrub team from Division 1AAA or something, so it won't matter."
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