Gentile Culture, Brah!

In an undeniably disturbing manner, I reach the fruitful nucleus of my day when I do something undeniably stupid. I know all you readers have been begging for a good suckling from the literary mammary gland, yearning for some sweet, sexy nectar gushing forth from the inner depths of my hambro soul.

Having laid out the precursor to what I'm about to say, just remember, it's spring and your mom has sprung.

So I'm fulfilling my stupid quota for the day in revealing a bit of information below.

I love equestrian girls.

I know, weird. I imagine if the ghost of James Brown were to reply to that comment he'd say something like:

Hot pants! Yeow!
Sex machines! Uh!
Whips! Good God!
Blazer! Maceo!
Mashed potatoes! Ha!



I don't have the faintest clue why equestrian girls turn me on the most. Yes, even more than all you little arty girls with pretentious tendencies oozing from your every pore. I wish I could say it was just a fad. A seasonal interest that sweeps in during the Kentucky Derby or the Country Club Olympics or some shit, but sadly, it's year round.

To the reader, sure it might appear as though I need professional therapy, psychotropic medications, a hot bubble bath, a few horseback riding lessons, or a rhino sedative, but I think a bowl of Cracklin Oat Bran cereal will suffice (275% dietary fiber, bitch).

I have concluded it is the gentile culture thing. Having said that, my first reaction, I have to say, is, "Codswallop!" Did I really just say that? I am as ignorant as the proverbial dinner guest who knows not his marrow scoop from his halibut fork after trying to understand the equestrian fetish. On a second thought, no, it's not the gentile thing that drives me insane.

Maybe it's my desire to live the high-brow life? Whatever it might be, thinking about the "equestrian urban chic" is burning my loins, brah. In an unbidden way, this blog reminds me of a song that plays in repeat in my head. Imagine a truly irresponsible, regrettable house party, where people end up naked, the front lawn catches on fire, and someone puts lipstick on the family pig and you make out with it endearingly. It's a hyperactive, spastic fit with 1980s synth ... but I don't know the name of the song.

I should get hyphen-happy and ultra-specific in this blog, but instead I think I'm going to go to Urban Outfitters and shake a Magic 8 Ball that I'm not actually going to buy, and pose the question, "Where are the equestrian urban chicks?"

Leave it at that, bro.

Bro! Dudebro, hambro, sasquatch, brethren ... This blog might not have earned me a three-part power handshake.



Thus, remember back in the day on Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That on Television" ... well, similar to that show, I feel like I should get slimed for revealing this secret fetish of mine in this blog.

Whatever. Peep the new music playlist. It's dope. I never say that enough. ... and I will prove the naysayers wrong and write two blogs a week, consistently, right after SXSW. By the way, I read a review that claims my crew over at Zebra is Food are the most clever dudes on the Interwebs. Here's my latest for them. Slick Rick talks about Unicorns over here.

Word.