Taffy asks if you see what she’s sayin’ and so will you.
Featuring Avi Garg as The Suited Man. Dir. B. O’Malley. Lyrics by Taffy Bennington and B. O’Malley.
It’s hot in LA today, but it’s largely due to the heat. And I just found out that Bob Hope doesn’t even own that goddamn airport in Burbank. But I’ll tell you what, I’ll have my car washed by high schoolers with garden hoses just as soon as they start making better signs. Shit man, this city needs an Hervé Villechaize statue. Seriously. How much could that shit possibly cost? They should make a new dish where old Italian men put their private parts on your forehead. They could call it “Ballsagna.” Please, by all means, call my landline. I’ll reply with a postcard attached to a helium balloon. And while we’re on the subject, what’s the deal with human necks? They’re so weird. I saw infinity and it was fire and anger and monkey and space. Zestify your existence. Ascend a tree. Consume a fig. Puke up the fig because it’s disgusting. This just in: NASA reports Pluto is a big fan of dubstep and Chinese plum wine. Oh and here’s a neat math trick for the kids: Pick any number. Add 7. Multiply by 12. Subtract 3. There you go. In my opinion, the last package on earth that should be difficult to open is Midol. I can not stress enough how much I am indeed not a robot, nor from the future, but they say the Omniverse is holographic, and we’re all infinitely intertwined, so please, wash your goddamn hands.