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She's got legs, she [didn't know how] to use them.
13 years ago
General
That ZZ Top song has been ringing in my head lately. I suppose legs, or the lack of them are in the news lately.(Prosthetic ones, in particular). You know of whom I speak. (No, not Heather Mills, ex-wife of ex-Beatle Paul). But if your mind goes to the tortured marriage of Heather and said Beatle, you would still be curiously on point. That point would be ill fated relationships. Let's continue.
What are the lyrics to that Eagles' song?
Something like:
I've got seven women on my mind-
Four that want to own me-
Two that want to stone me-One says she's a friend of mine.
I wonder which one Reeva Steenkamp fell under?
Yes, I'm going there. Yes, there.
So fasten your seatbelts for the ride. CHOO- CHOOOOOOO!!!
So the other day, I'm poolside with my f**kbuddies in West Palm Beach perusing the cover of the New York Post. Ok, when I say I'm in West Palm Beach, I mean...um..... Did you ever see that Bobbi Kristina Houston show (me neither!) where they all drone on and on about how they love living in Manhattan and every two minutes we see shots of the Manhattan skyline and........ we find out they live in New Jersey? Ok. So when I say West Palm Beach, I mean someplace within view of West Palm Beach.....But, um cheaper. Yes, that's it. Whatever. On the cover of the Post in big, bold letters: HOW I KILLED REEVA: BY OSCAR PISTORIUS.
Now among this particular clique, the topic of women is generally taboo- except for Liz, Liza, Lindsay, Barbra, Judy, Jodie(Only in the context of: "It's about friggin time!"), Cher, Xtina, Madonna (We used to talk about them, but now- not so much). And since its Oscar season (excuse the pun), sometimes Anne (In the context of "Love her short hair, but I still don't get why people say she's so beautiful. I mean, there is something weird about her face. All the mascara and lipstick in the world won't fix that mess.
Speaking of messes, I walked into a nice one: So we're sipping marghatinis by the pool and reading the paper (Nobody actually goes in the pool, by the way, it's all about seeing and being seen). Whatever. The f**kbuddy to the left grabs the newspaper out of my hand and exclaims: "How could anyone shoot that beautiful woman......" He then shook his head, unable to finish his thought. A new topic of conversation was opened! The logical conclusion of his thinking was that it was NOT OK to shoot beautiful people. (Agreed). But did that also mean it WAS OK to shoot the ugly ones? I'm sure that's not what he meant to say, but that's what I heard. Because I am a person of class and distinction, I overlooked his Freudian slip. So in reply, I gave my own opinion of the matter: "I guess you've never been in a bad relationship... otherwise you wouldn't ask that question."
(Yes, I'm going there!)
*Blank stares from my f**kbuddies.*
So, as the world went from sympathizing with Pistorius- to being suspicious of him- to chastising him for his lack of self-control- I was actually admiring him for his self-restraint. If it were me, I'd shoot that stall full of bullets until my damn hand cramped up. But hey, that's just me. Now don't get me wrong- I don't pretend to know what went on behind closed doors, but I'm sure she took him on a ride to hell and back again by the time he picked up that gun. It's no coincidence that this happened around Valentine's Day. He finally had enough. She finally had enough. Been there.
What are the lyrics to that Jim Croce song?
You don't tug on Superman's cape-
You don't spit into the wind-
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger-
And you don't mess around with....... a cripple.
Um, no.... wait! It's.....
And you don't mess around with a world famous athlete!
Yes! That's it!
(Cough, OJ. cough.).
Now I don't expect you younger furries to understand the level of desperation involved here. I mean... have you ever paced up and down your yard in a robe and carrying a shotgun while shouting at the police: "She's MY woman! She's MY woman now!" Meanwhile you can hear intermittent screaming from inside the house. Two cruisers are parked out front waiting for you to take "provocative action." You don't ever want to get on the wrong side of a policeman's baton. My ass is still sore.
Why didn't Reeva just run? I don't know. I would like to think that at 03:00 in the morning, he wasn't wearing his prosthetic legs. But maybe he was. Maybe she couldn't outrun him. So she hid. Maybe that's it. Had she known, she could have dumped his legs off the balcony; should have dumped the rest of him off that balcony, too. One thing I do know, she was planning to dump his sorry ass, at least. Likely for the second time. That's what Valentine's Day is for, you know. Ain't love grand?
Meanwhile, I'm still wasting away again in Margheritaville. Searching for my lost shaker of salt. Some people say that there's a woman to blame. But I don't. It's my own damn fault.
Love- D
What are the lyrics to that Eagles' song?
Something like:
I've got seven women on my mind-
Four that want to own me-
Two that want to stone me-One says she's a friend of mine.
I wonder which one Reeva Steenkamp fell under?
Yes, I'm going there. Yes, there.
So fasten your seatbelts for the ride. CHOO- CHOOOOOOO!!!
So the other day, I'm poolside with my f**kbuddies in West Palm Beach perusing the cover of the New York Post. Ok, when I say I'm in West Palm Beach, I mean...um..... Did you ever see that Bobbi Kristina Houston show (me neither!) where they all drone on and on about how they love living in Manhattan and every two minutes we see shots of the Manhattan skyline and........ we find out they live in New Jersey? Ok. So when I say West Palm Beach, I mean someplace within view of West Palm Beach.....But, um cheaper. Yes, that's it. Whatever. On the cover of the Post in big, bold letters: HOW I KILLED REEVA: BY OSCAR PISTORIUS.
Now among this particular clique, the topic of women is generally taboo- except for Liz, Liza, Lindsay, Barbra, Judy, Jodie(Only in the context of: "It's about friggin time!"), Cher, Xtina, Madonna (We used to talk about them, but now- not so much). And since its Oscar season (excuse the pun), sometimes Anne (In the context of "Love her short hair, but I still don't get why people say she's so beautiful. I mean, there is something weird about her face. All the mascara and lipstick in the world won't fix that mess.
Speaking of messes, I walked into a nice one: So we're sipping marghatinis by the pool and reading the paper (Nobody actually goes in the pool, by the way, it's all about seeing and being seen). Whatever. The f**kbuddy to the left grabs the newspaper out of my hand and exclaims: "How could anyone shoot that beautiful woman......" He then shook his head, unable to finish his thought. A new topic of conversation was opened! The logical conclusion of his thinking was that it was NOT OK to shoot beautiful people. (Agreed). But did that also mean it WAS OK to shoot the ugly ones? I'm sure that's not what he meant to say, but that's what I heard. Because I am a person of class and distinction, I overlooked his Freudian slip. So in reply, I gave my own opinion of the matter: "I guess you've never been in a bad relationship... otherwise you wouldn't ask that question."
(Yes, I'm going there!)
*Blank stares from my f**kbuddies.*
So, as the world went from sympathizing with Pistorius- to being suspicious of him- to chastising him for his lack of self-control- I was actually admiring him for his self-restraint. If it were me, I'd shoot that stall full of bullets until my damn hand cramped up. But hey, that's just me. Now don't get me wrong- I don't pretend to know what went on behind closed doors, but I'm sure she took him on a ride to hell and back again by the time he picked up that gun. It's no coincidence that this happened around Valentine's Day. He finally had enough. She finally had enough. Been there.
What are the lyrics to that Jim Croce song?
You don't tug on Superman's cape-
You don't spit into the wind-
You don't pull the mask off that old Lone Ranger-
And you don't mess around with....... a cripple.
Um, no.... wait! It's.....
And you don't mess around with a world famous athlete!
Yes! That's it!
(Cough, OJ. cough.).
Now I don't expect you younger furries to understand the level of desperation involved here. I mean... have you ever paced up and down your yard in a robe and carrying a shotgun while shouting at the police: "She's MY woman! She's MY woman now!" Meanwhile you can hear intermittent screaming from inside the house. Two cruisers are parked out front waiting for you to take "provocative action." You don't ever want to get on the wrong side of a policeman's baton. My ass is still sore.
Why didn't Reeva just run? I don't know. I would like to think that at 03:00 in the morning, he wasn't wearing his prosthetic legs. But maybe he was. Maybe she couldn't outrun him. So she hid. Maybe that's it. Had she known, she could have dumped his legs off the balcony; should have dumped the rest of him off that balcony, too. One thing I do know, she was planning to dump his sorry ass, at least. Likely for the second time. That's what Valentine's Day is for, you know. Ain't love grand?
Meanwhile, I'm still wasting away again in Margheritaville. Searching for my lost shaker of salt. Some people say that there's a woman to blame. But I don't. It's my own damn fault.
Love- D
