NICE TRY KLEIN
Calvin Klein tried to kill me today.
Yeah, I'm not too surprised either.
Many of you, my faithful Star Worz audience, may not know this but, Calvin Klein and I have a pretty long standing feud going on with each other. It's a long, torrid tale with many an insulted mother and thrown punch, so I won't bore you with the details. Let me just say this though, if a design mogul can't actually prove his parents were married before his conception, he shouldn't be throwing lamps at internet journalists. Especially because that was a Baptism party we were at.
Back to the story, I was reading my latest issue of Maxim magazine today during my lunch break. Yes, I read Maxim magazine. Why? Because it combines two of men's biggest id desires. Beautiful women that you'll never actually meet, and who you'd be shot down by if you somehow did meet them, and really cool, really expensive items you could never, ever afford to have unless you were a big wig CEO. Which you aren't, because, well, look at you, you're reading Maxim on your lunch break. The only way they could top themselves is if they printed the magazine on Bacon Cheeseburgers. I'd buy so many issues a month I'd have to live out of my car. Strike that, out of my parents' car.
Now Calvy, as he hates to be called, knows I read Maxim magazine. He learned that lesson the hard way when we were golfing one weekend and he tried to cheap out on a game of Greensies. (Note: A Maxim, or any other thick magazine, when rolled up, makes for a devastating club weapon.) So he devised a rather cunning little trap for me. As I was flipping through the pages absentmindedly, my focus on my sandwich and "Newsradio" re-runs, I suddenly felt a slice across my finger. I looked down to find that I was bleeding all over the place.
Calvin Klein, that son of a bush pig and purveyor of lies, had slipped an ad for his new fragrance in the issue, the razor sharp corner of which had cut me squarely across the knuckle of my pointer finger. The pointer finger, my finger of accusation that had been flung on many occasion in Calvy's direction. It was his handiwork alright.
Looking down I could see the blood pouring out of a gash so deep there were tourists lining up to take burro rides to the bottom. It was only my cool headedness and quick thinking that prevented me from losing the finger, which, at this point was basically hanging by the joint alone. Quickly binding the wound with a band-aid I went to the window just in time to see a Ford Festiva with the license plate "CKWON" tear up the street. Once again Calvy's attempt on my life had been thwarted, but just barely.
I know Calvin Klein reads this blog. Or rather, he has people read it to him. He has the education of a third grader and the personal hygiene of a mudfish. I just want him to know that I am still alive and it will take a better man than him to send me to my final resting place.
The score is now-
CK 14
Star Worz 37
Oh, and I finally rented "A Man Apart" Cal, you were wrong, it totally sucks. And you suck just for liking it. And for the record your new fragrance smells like wet dog.
Yeah, I'm not too surprised either.
Many of you, my faithful Star Worz audience, may not know this but, Calvin Klein and I have a pretty long standing feud going on with each other. It's a long, torrid tale with many an insulted mother and thrown punch, so I won't bore you with the details. Let me just say this though, if a design mogul can't actually prove his parents were married before his conception, he shouldn't be throwing lamps at internet journalists. Especially because that was a Baptism party we were at.
Back to the story, I was reading my latest issue of Maxim magazine today during my lunch break. Yes, I read Maxim magazine. Why? Because it combines two of men's biggest id desires. Beautiful women that you'll never actually meet, and who you'd be shot down by if you somehow did meet them, and really cool, really expensive items you could never, ever afford to have unless you were a big wig CEO. Which you aren't, because, well, look at you, you're reading Maxim on your lunch break. The only way they could top themselves is if they printed the magazine on Bacon Cheeseburgers. I'd buy so many issues a month I'd have to live out of my car. Strike that, out of my parents' car.
Now Calvy, as he hates to be called, knows I read Maxim magazine. He learned that lesson the hard way when we were golfing one weekend and he tried to cheap out on a game of Greensies. (Note: A Maxim, or any other thick magazine, when rolled up, makes for a devastating club weapon.) So he devised a rather cunning little trap for me. As I was flipping through the pages absentmindedly, my focus on my sandwich and "Newsradio" re-runs, I suddenly felt a slice across my finger. I looked down to find that I was bleeding all over the place.
Calvin Klein, that son of a bush pig and purveyor of lies, had slipped an ad for his new fragrance in the issue, the razor sharp corner of which had cut me squarely across the knuckle of my pointer finger. The pointer finger, my finger of accusation that had been flung on many occasion in Calvy's direction. It was his handiwork alright.
Looking down I could see the blood pouring out of a gash so deep there were tourists lining up to take burro rides to the bottom. It was only my cool headedness and quick thinking that prevented me from losing the finger, which, at this point was basically hanging by the joint alone. Quickly binding the wound with a band-aid I went to the window just in time to see a Ford Festiva with the license plate "CKWON" tear up the street. Once again Calvy's attempt on my life had been thwarted, but just barely.
I know Calvin Klein reads this blog. Or rather, he has people read it to him. He has the education of a third grader and the personal hygiene of a mudfish. I just want him to know that I am still alive and it will take a better man than him to send me to my final resting place.
The score is now-
CK 14
Star Worz 37
Oh, and I finally rented "A Man Apart" Cal, you were wrong, it totally sucks. And you suck just for liking it. And for the record your new fragrance smells like wet dog.
posted by Matt Worzala at
7:28 PM
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