About the conformity of society. Not appropriate for all ages. |
Norway wasn't supposed to be sunny. But it was, and that crazy blond herring weather man, who can't quite pronounce his r's, he's spinning in his office chair looking at a dot on the ceiling. And he spins spins spins spins spins. Light gushes from the dot and it's too damn cold to be Alaska. Maybe you could get a sun tan. Get a microwave, and an LL Bean instant electricity boot. Flocks of penguins diving off the melted rock and flying off into outer space are only part of your hallucination. And on the other side, well, it doesn't matter anyways. People are drinking martinis in glasses shaped to fill, getting intoxicated breathing fire out of discharge pipes... And they spin spin spin spin spin. Like gaping firecrackers looking for the cheese that's just too delicious not to buy. Commercials elongate tanned legs shorten the skirts broaden the mind to what really might just not be the next fiasco, Which is a shame, really, cause we're loosing our minds and hell, if it feels good. We're spinning out of control in the crack-whore waltz. Fancy tiaras tinfoil masks. Fucking fantastic, maybe. Or it might just be the wine that's making everything go haywire. Cities are exploding: people bombs. Children are crying: I WANT THE PRESENTS, MOMMY. And I spin spin spin spin spin. The weather man is still looking at the dot on the ceiling. He's contemplating why we can't quite tell the difference between beauty and havoc. |