So there’s this guy up on stage with on-fire barrels and the Santa Carla crowd is just loving it and he’s this big bodybuilder with an extremely oiled and nude torso and long greasy mullet and I think some chains around his neck — not like pretty little gold chains but the kind of chains you use to haul an engine out of a ‘64 Thunderbird? And he’s singing and pointing at the stone foxes in the crowd but then he also pauses from time to time to lustily play the saxophone. But Jason Patric is too infatuated with Jami Gertz to pay attention and Corey Haim is all WTF why are you not totally entranced by the oiled saxophonist like I am, and that, son, that is why the Eighties was the best decade ever.
OK first off my tuxedo shirt doesn’t fit in the slightest. Bunching up around my midsection. You know. And I am not a man who can wear cufflinks. Wish I was but here we are. Anyway this wedding is a sham anyway so nobody’s worrying about my midsection or the cufflinks because they’re mostly worried about the divorce that’ll be kicking in nine months from now and whether they’ll get store credit for the George Foreman grill they bought. But me, me I’m mostly worried about the midsection, and the bridesmaids who might think I’m too pudgy to talk to. When really it’s just an ill-fitting rental, you know, and a gut full of cake. Cake that looked a whole lot fancier than it tasted, FYI.
OK so I wear orthopedic shoes. That’s right. Laugh it up. Get it all out. All done? So now you should know that I don’t need to wear them. Yeah you heard correctly. My feet are fucking flawless and if you followed my Flickr feed you’d already have ample proof of that.
(I mean, not to brag but this one time an actual lady w/boobs one time said your feet are so sexy I might be willing to overlook your horrifying misogyny — quote endquote bitchez!!)
But the thing is that sometimes I need to hide a small knife or forty dollars or a picture of my mother somewhere on my person, and orthopedic shoes provide a perfect secret nook. A nook which both muggers and strip-search professionals absolutely refuse to check because they think it’ll be so gross.
So I guess my point is don’t mock things you couldn’t even begin to understand. Or maybe: Screw you guys I’m a human being with real feelings and real feet.
I don’t eat sandwiches that are more than say six inches long. Because I knew this guy who got a sandwich and bit into it and there was a snake inside. Not a killer cobra or whatever, just a little green garter snake there in the shredded lettuce, but still.
And I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say: Josh, even if you ordered a cute little one-inch sandwich (do they make those?), there could be anything in there. A scorpion, a poison capsule, a terrible spider. And to you I say: Jesus Christ you’re right. What am I going to do.