THE ELLA FITZGERALD LOOK-ALIKE CONTEST
Style was more important than rubber underwear, at least that's what papa's male nurse used to say. Back in them days, looking stylish wasn't about fashion but about deception. People would skin a panther with their bare teeth, drape its pelt around their loins and bask in the glory.
Nowadays, euphemisms were common and style was as subjective as a dog poo with salad dressing. Men preferred skimpy tops to accentuate their stout midriff. Ladies were high on flagwear, sewed indifferently by malnutritioned seamstresses of expansive girth and sparse leisure.
The era demanded that tradition be damned, which is why illegal contests were entered by masses of underground freaks who secretly craved free haggis though rarely got it.
Recently however, the guys from Queer Eye had redefined the roles of the fashion police, mostly by whacking large cucumbers where the sun rarely shone, yet always cast a shadow.
In January of '06 a new light shone upon all. Organised and funded by Sir Elton John, the direction of fashion centred on look-alike OJ Simpson. Simpson would regularly dress up to look like many famous celebrites of the past, including Sir Elton John himself, and this trend was now becoming prominent in mainstream fashion. OJ's first costume consisted of leather and hemp to symbolise freedom, equality and other fantasies longing for public attention. Simpson's pants were of course chaps, smothered in butter and seasoned with roadkill. It formed quite the partnership with his cheap cologne.
As if Elton wasn't bad enough to shag, his fashion sense smelled like tripe pancakes. Elephants wrestling in squid love juices, while being peed and defaecated on by recently paroled zoo keepers, emitted more pleasant fashion odours. As did dung beetles, squashed roaches and fat women's shoes worn for more than two decades.
The fashion industry was shocked when Elton announced: "The world needs an Ella Fitzgerald look-alike contest," much like it was with Gaultier's Mother of Pearl encrusted 18" dildo.
Many didn't know of Fitzgerald. Many thought she was the sea plane made famous by Howard Hughes. Some thought she was a sandwich.
The contest failed before it could succeed when three representatives of the entertainment industry set John on fire and passed around medium to well-done shishkebabs to onlookers at no cost.
"The man's a toss-rag," said Vinnie Jones during the arraignment. "Hear, hear," added Jarvis Cocker to quizzical looks from the jury, comprising of hearing impaired orphans on anabolic steroids.
The trio's feelings on the matter were summarised by Liam Gallagher's borderline poetic sentiments when he shouted, "Piss off, you nonce!" before landing a sucker punch to the guard's groin and darting from the court.
Most girl-drink drunks will attest to lifelong admiration for cowboy boots after six margaritas and becomingly Agnostic palpitation crystal boundless frazzle, and whatnot. This is why cocaine is the preferred alternative.
Thank god Chuck Norris was present to sort the fashion chaff white belts from the bona fide patriot missile blackbelts.
Gallagher, Jones and Cocker were left open mouthed as Norris cartwheeled down the catwalk in a miniskirt/fallout suit/gassmask combination made entirely from selotape and polo mints. There was raucous applause as he decapitated a Time magazine representative mid spin with a shoe made of ricicles, following the errant reporter's comments in a pre-show press conference about the validity of Fitzgerald's work. Chuck had vowed revenge, saying that The Great Gatsby was the whole reason he got into "Fist Justice" in the first place. Now he had that revenge and to show it, he wore the journalist's claret like an ironic accessory.
"Ella, not F. Scott," O.J. foolheartedly lamented to the tray of cucumber dip which had managed to catch his randy little goat boy's eye. He leaned nonchalantly with one shoulder against the wall and seductively dragged his tongue from the right side of his lower lip to the left. O.J. inserted his left index finger inside his mouth, secured his lips tightly over it then removed his finger forcefully with a sideways motion to generate a popping sound. He flared his nostrils as wide as his genes would permit and completed his patent pending sexual advance by looking at the tray of cucumber dip through the corner of his eyes before thoroughly sucking his extended middle finger in a bobbling motion, gradually increasing the momentum. He'd been practicing the event in his floor-to-ceiling mirrors at home, often without the encumbrance of clothes as on this occasion, dubbing it 'The Smoulder Technique' out of respect for his two favourite conspiracy theorists, The X Files' agents Scully and Mulder. So far, O.J.'s bed sheets had projected only the smells and stains of an aging African-American Houdini with only a beckoning cabaret singing career to look forward to. Fuelled by a pocket full of Rohypnol and eight grams of ecstasy, O.J. entertained ideas about spraying his bed sheets a shade of green and white veneer that night.
Chuck was halfway through the cartwheel when he picked up O.J's rohypnol musings on the Psychic Injustice Radar built into his knuckles. Silently praising the CIA boys for their handiwork, he leapt through the air and roundhoused Simpson into the cucumber sandwich platter. Naturally, all the sandwiches divided neatly from halfs into quarters and nobody except the NFL legend was injured. He didn't study Shaolin for nothing!
The camera crews present were in uproar, accusing Norris of assualt, GBH and previously undisclosed knuckle modification. They soon shut their cakeholes when Chuck lifted his rowntree/gaultier polo fallout suit to reveal his Thought Display Monitor. The journo's gaped in awe as OJ's sick ecstasy musings were laid out in cold hard televisual evidence on the Texas Rangers cathode ray abs.
The shock publicity brought massive attention to the fashion show, its future assured by the never waning star of notoriety. It would be forever remembered as 'The day Chuck Norris showed us a TV in his stomach with OJ doing bad stuff on it.'
Nowadays, euphemisms were common and style was as subjective as a dog poo with salad dressing. Men preferred skimpy tops to accentuate their stout midriff. Ladies were high on flagwear, sewed indifferently by malnutritioned seamstresses of expansive girth and sparse leisure.
The era demanded that tradition be damned, which is why illegal contests were entered by masses of underground freaks who secretly craved free haggis though rarely got it.
Recently however, the guys from Queer Eye had redefined the roles of the fashion police, mostly by whacking large cucumbers where the sun rarely shone, yet always cast a shadow.
In January of '06 a new light shone upon all. Organised and funded by Sir Elton John, the direction of fashion centred on look-alike OJ Simpson. Simpson would regularly dress up to look like many famous celebrites of the past, including Sir Elton John himself, and this trend was now becoming prominent in mainstream fashion. OJ's first costume consisted of leather and hemp to symbolise freedom, equality and other fantasies longing for public attention. Simpson's pants were of course chaps, smothered in butter and seasoned with roadkill. It formed quite the partnership with his cheap cologne.
As if Elton wasn't bad enough to shag, his fashion sense smelled like tripe pancakes. Elephants wrestling in squid love juices, while being peed and defaecated on by recently paroled zoo keepers, emitted more pleasant fashion odours. As did dung beetles, squashed roaches and fat women's shoes worn for more than two decades.
The fashion industry was shocked when Elton announced: "The world needs an Ella Fitzgerald look-alike contest," much like it was with Gaultier's Mother of Pearl encrusted 18" dildo.
Many didn't know of Fitzgerald. Many thought she was the sea plane made famous by Howard Hughes. Some thought she was a sandwich.
The contest failed before it could succeed when three representatives of the entertainment industry set John on fire and passed around medium to well-done shishkebabs to onlookers at no cost.
"The man's a toss-rag," said Vinnie Jones during the arraignment. "Hear, hear," added Jarvis Cocker to quizzical looks from the jury, comprising of hearing impaired orphans on anabolic steroids.
The trio's feelings on the matter were summarised by Liam Gallagher's borderline poetic sentiments when he shouted, "Piss off, you nonce!" before landing a sucker punch to the guard's groin and darting from the court.
Most girl-drink drunks will attest to lifelong admiration for cowboy boots after six margaritas and becomingly Agnostic palpitation crystal boundless frazzle, and whatnot. This is why cocaine is the preferred alternative.
Thank god Chuck Norris was present to sort the fashion chaff white belts from the bona fide patriot missile blackbelts.
Gallagher, Jones and Cocker were left open mouthed as Norris cartwheeled down the catwalk in a miniskirt/fallout suit/gassmask combination made entirely from selotape and polo mints. There was raucous applause as he decapitated a Time magazine representative mid spin with a shoe made of ricicles, following the errant reporter's comments in a pre-show press conference about the validity of Fitzgerald's work. Chuck had vowed revenge, saying that The Great Gatsby was the whole reason he got into "Fist Justice" in the first place. Now he had that revenge and to show it, he wore the journalist's claret like an ironic accessory.
"Ella, not F. Scott," O.J. foolheartedly lamented to the tray of cucumber dip which had managed to catch his randy little goat boy's eye. He leaned nonchalantly with one shoulder against the wall and seductively dragged his tongue from the right side of his lower lip to the left. O.J. inserted his left index finger inside his mouth, secured his lips tightly over it then removed his finger forcefully with a sideways motion to generate a popping sound. He flared his nostrils as wide as his genes would permit and completed his patent pending sexual advance by looking at the tray of cucumber dip through the corner of his eyes before thoroughly sucking his extended middle finger in a bobbling motion, gradually increasing the momentum. He'd been practicing the event in his floor-to-ceiling mirrors at home, often without the encumbrance of clothes as on this occasion, dubbing it 'The Smoulder Technique' out of respect for his two favourite conspiracy theorists, The X Files' agents Scully and Mulder. So far, O.J.'s bed sheets had projected only the smells and stains of an aging African-American Houdini with only a beckoning cabaret singing career to look forward to. Fuelled by a pocket full of Rohypnol and eight grams of ecstasy, O.J. entertained ideas about spraying his bed sheets a shade of green and white veneer that night.
Chuck was halfway through the cartwheel when he picked up O.J's rohypnol musings on the Psychic Injustice Radar built into his knuckles. Silently praising the CIA boys for their handiwork, he leapt through the air and roundhoused Simpson into the cucumber sandwich platter. Naturally, all the sandwiches divided neatly from halfs into quarters and nobody except the NFL legend was injured. He didn't study Shaolin for nothing!
The camera crews present were in uproar, accusing Norris of assualt, GBH and previously undisclosed knuckle modification. They soon shut their cakeholes when Chuck lifted his rowntree/gaultier polo fallout suit to reveal his Thought Display Monitor. The journo's gaped in awe as OJ's sick ecstasy musings were laid out in cold hard televisual evidence on the Texas Rangers cathode ray abs.
The shock publicity brought massive attention to the fashion show, its future assured by the never waning star of notoriety. It would be forever remembered as 'The day Chuck Norris showed us a TV in his stomach with OJ doing bad stuff on it.'
posted by Chris Benjamin at 10:33 AM
12 Comments:
Isn't she the one who would break a wine glass with her singing voice on that old Memorex commercial?
Yoko Ono could wilt flowers with her voice.
What I want to know is what happened to all the procrastinators? Seems to be CB, DDC and moi as the only three mules to offer any variations at the mo.
Wake up!
what kinda world is it comin to when procrastinators start procrastinating their procrastinations?
...one where progress of procrastination has taken a severe battering.
What's up with having fifty-five contributors when we're twiddling our thumbs for five days hoping - better make that praying - that someone will find twenty seconds in their important lives to type five words?
P.S. Your contributions have not gone unnoticed, Benjibopper. Suffice to say that management has its good eye on you.
Breathe, gentlemen (and ladies where applicable). I have returned.
You were gone?
Only with the wind.
oOOP. Check it. I'm back.
I think this piece is our best work to date.
Ultra: The library would like its books back.
Benji: I agree. Just quietly, methinks the five word theory flew out the window weeks ago, perhaps coinciding with the realisation that four team members (at best) remained standing. The revolution has been revolutionised.
Who is that teamster on your avatar?
As the only member of the team to exceed the parameter of maximum density, I think I speak on behalf of everyone when I write listen here, old man. Firstly, visit our individual haunts, read EVERYTHING (and I mean EVERYTHING) at our sites and then comment until your typing fingers wear down to stubbs.
There is no secondly.
Then we'll think about letting you in.
damn, i hate it when it turns out i've prescribed to an outdated theory. well at least creationism is still hot.
that teamster you see beaming your way is none other than some guy who showed up when I did a google pic search on the word 'Stud'.
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