Fuck, I’ve left this one pretty late. It’s 10.30pm on a Sunday and 90 minutes before my carriage turns into a pumpkin. I contemplated dialling this post in, but then I thought I’d be doing myself and my gracious investors and readers a disservice if I waxed lyrical about something unimportant for 400 words. So, instead, I’m going to talk about something that angers me more than almost anything on this Earth. I’m talking Bruce Banner bursting out of his shirt angry…

When I type the words ‘Pit Bull’ into Google, I want the first search result to be a picture of a dog with a weird-looking nose and a bad rep for munching on kiddies and old ladies for no apparent reason. I DO NOT want to see some bald-headed, five foot zero, shit-eating, infant-faced, sunglasses-at-night-wearing, tailored-suit sporting turd-jockey that for some unfathomable reason has sold more than 10 million records worldwide.

It’s always so bright in the club, homie!

I work a 9-to-5 job that requires that I wear a suit (or a variation on the theme) every day. When I get home, the first thing I do is take my suit off and put it away with the other suits so that;

a)      I don’t have to look at it until the next day

b)      It stays nicely pressed, (mamma didn’t raise no fool…)

c)       The other suits don’t get jealous…

When I go out for drinks with friends on the weekend, the last thing that’s going through my mind is, ‘Fuck man, I know what’d be a good idea, I’ll suit up ‘cause all the honeys love a man who looks sharp’. In fact, I even actively avoid going out after work with a suit on during the week.

The rule? – Separation of church (wearing a suit) and state (getting full as a boot).

Pitbull (or Mr. Worldwide, as he sometimes refers to himself as – what a fuckwit) is one of the most thoroughly uninspiring pieces of shit that I’ve ever seen. He can’t sing, he can’t rap and he moves about as well as Chewbacca would, had he been the decorative centrepiece at a 500-strong bukkake party. He raps like he’s ‘gangsta’ (whatever the fuck that is) but he ends up coming off like a scared 12-year old playing with his dick while he watches documentaries about the Bloods and the Crips on Nat Geo whilst hugging a comforter.

He creates some of the worst ‘music’ I’ve ever heard and is perpetuating an attitude than an un-educated life as a ‘well-dressed’ thug carries with it a level of merit so substantial as to be aspirational. By the way, it doesn’t matter how much you spend on a tailored suit and patent-leather Oxfords, there is a subtle art to wearing a suit properly that does meld successfully with the posture encouraged amongst street-wise hoodlums, whether legitimate or counterfeit (Pitbull).

Every now and again (after finding a reason substantial enough to write yourself off completely) you’ll find yourself in the sort of establishment that proudly drops Pitbull tracks. Hell, you might even find yourself in there with a member of the opposite sex. You have a choice to make if you want to see if things are going to progress… you’re going to have to dance.

Note: you can’t dance ironically to a Pitbull track. You’re going to have to throw yourself into it with the same reckless abandon that a pensioner throws the last of their fortnightly Centrelink cheque into the 5c pokies at their local R.S.L club. With every subtle grind of your hips, shake of your ass and awkward wave of your hands, you’re going to die a little inside. Prepare for this.

I’ll also add at this time, while you think you are ‘killing it’ out there on the floor, if you were to obtain CCTV footage from the club owner it’d be clear to all and sundry that you’re actually doing your best impersonation of ‘The Whitest Motherfucker on the Planet’.

Morning comes. Sunlight streams through the infinitesimal crack in your blinds, somehow strategically placed to hit you directly in the face at 9.30am. The smell of ‘Britney Spears – Fantasy’ mixes intoxicatingly in the still morning air with an aroma of  foundation and mascara so thick and so immediate that you can literally taste it. Like one of the ancients dragging itself groggily from its cobweb-encased sarcophagus, wise and all-knowing, you pull yourself from your snooze-chariot to your feet and survey the scene with an increasing level of lucidity.

You reap what you sow…

The French say that every orgasm is like ‘la petite mort’; ‘the Little Death’. If this is true, I should blow my wad every time a Pitbull song comes on.

/end communication.

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