I spent so much time yesterday remembering things that today I can't remember shit. And if you know anything about me it's that I always know shit about shit. So let's skip the shit for today and go straight to the fuck—or more like, what the fuck? (If this all sounds far too vulgar for your squeaky clean cares, please feel free to cute it up in your own head with Hello Kitty amputations like "f'" or "eff", but please don't "WTF" at all because the only time an acronym should ever be employed is when playing with vintage Micronaut toys while ripped on Champipple.) There's so much going wrong in this photo that it can only be right off the sidelines of a jackass 3D shoot.
The sum of all its parts is far too much for most mortal minds to consume, but once broken into bits it's a bit more fun-sized in digestion. Take Loomis. It was, sadly, his last minutes with a fully operational skeletal system before getting forcibly felled and Mary Poppinsing his collar bone. And Bam. He's all bubble-wrapped up with no place to pop, because the fat boys were not back and never once did get blasted by the jet stream. But he does make a nice, slimming bookend for Preston, doesn't he? Preston who is about to sit down to a tight transvestite dinner date with Chris "Bunny" Pontius. Then, lastly, there's poor Knoxville ... the human skeet target patiently waiting for his shot at getting the retro Friday night lights knocked out of him. Now that's a mouthful of muffed-up stuff, but hey, I call that Tuesday.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; Camarillo, California 2010)