Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!
Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!
Where she’s a poet, he’s a poet, but he’s a businessman
And they all wear black ties to the grand ball carrying uninterested women in fake plastic glass slippers on their arms.
Ah! Plastics make it all possible!
From the incubator to the day when the thug from the 3rd, over 4th down street breaks into your home for your fake leather wallet and your inflated cash prizes to realize jealousy and to use plastic wrap to cover your always gaping mouth from gasping any further air.
Yes! Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!
A new millennium of déjà vu and alcoholics, where he’s depressive, she’s on Prozac but I am dating Mary Jane.
All to justify fake sufferings and pity, all to stumble upon blindly, a smelly age-old shuttle bus, where the seated man behind you is the seated woman in front of you because
Plastics make it all possible!
Welcome to the century of crazed weight-loss where weight is spelled w-a-i-t and loss is time lost spent glazing your eyes over magazines such as People or Stars or the Enquirer, with the enquired person pregnant three days by an ET producer whose father came from Mars and whose nephew is half cat.
An age of Viagra, of old geezers getting it on with women who can’t afford birth control but are covered under biased insurance policies for abortion.
An age of make-up magicians who are paid by the pound to accentuate features by smattering thickly every inch in goo those same unhideable features, to form a new, renewed, you.
An age of plaster-faced women without wrinkles or spots, strutting around in 11 inch heels on the backs of eager future wannabe’s who aspire to their height but can only wear 5 inch imposter stilettos which were purchased for $40 at the Payless near you,
Which where made by starving children in China or Indonesia at 2 cents an hour, melting down chemicals to mold into shoes, why?
Because Plastics make it all possible!
Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st century!
A timeless moment, where his child only knows MasterCard, hers is starved for vegetables, and the adorable doe-eyed girl from down the block is diluted on Riddilin. In sequence with all of her friends in Kindergarten. Whose teacher helps distribute pills while taking one of her own, to calm her nerves, to avoid the truth that she can’t handle this job. She’d rather be in the Bahamas where she’d wear imitation 5 inch heels and cat-walk down the runway for flashing photographers and eager artists whose clothes hang on her like last seasons’ ripped shards. While puckering her lips which are fuller from the ass-fat pumped into them and pouting at the ceiling for the world, eager to flaunt what they have created, a monster in the closet, a subtle reminder of who we all terrifyingly might become.
Welcome to the popularity contest of the 21st Century!
And she knows this, as she prances off stage to shoot up on heroine to achieve that wonderful, doe-eyed, red-rimmed look in her eye, because She can’t handle this job.
The job of being a dream, an aspiration, a lofty goal, the opportune picture craved for by men and killed for by women. The job the makes doctors into artistic miracle-workers, a job dependent on the very same plastics that have made so many other lives possible. Plastics that finance the world, from the cheap shoes to the $2000 hipbone replacement that allowed your great aunt to walk again, Why?
Because Plastics make it ALL possible!
These same plastics that financed the hip to the shoes have financed the rich suit he wore when he sued McDonald’s for his obesity, the enlarged suit for him made from a knock-off of Donald Trump’s collection in the purest silks and kerchiefs paid for in cash,
That could have been spent on a decent hairpiece.
Suits of diamond cuff links, so eloquent!
So fancy!
So original!
A sea of slightly darker navy blues in selected grey cuts, distinguished against the slightly lighter navy blues in selected softer grey cuts. With a briefcase at his side filled with charts upon charts of the next stock explosion, the next Black Tuesday, the next Martha Stewart scandal!
All to fantasize about get-rich quick schemes so that you can afford more then he or she ever had in the rat race of the century, the rat race of our lives. To chase after that Benjamin Franklin shaped cheese so that we can all look like each other, so that we may one day win
This unending,
Popularity contest of the 21st Century!
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