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walk the walk, stalk the stalk...



Get a load of this, everyone...

the other day, whilst i was minding mine own business and traipsing 
about the concrete jungle that is inner city Charlottetown (some call 
it the ghetto; still others, the 'hood.  fewer name it the barrio, but 
i digress), i spied our subject of stalkicity.

aye, it be Chris Murphy.  stalkers, take note.
oh, the rest of sloan was there too, but, heck, who cares, right?

he was bedazzling from head to toe in sequined gold lah-may (hooked on 
phonics worked for me... "lame" it is) with the skin tight trouser 
portion of the ensemble tucked into his thigh-high snake skin 
platform boots.  ah, a marvelous sight.  but we haven't yet reached 
his coif.

the hair, the hair... fingers to be run through it... o! to tousle!  
but forsooth, throngs of ladeez were already to him.  his silken 
locks had been expertly molded into a fanciful pompadour, not unlike 
the king of slicked down hip-happenin'-hop, vanilla ice.  he was a 
sight to behold, and me without my infrared vision goggles and 
surveillance apparatae.  

i swear, my colleagues, it was indeed a vision.  a holy ring of light 
was around his head, and the carefully arranged mat of chest hair 
only enhanced his gold medallion.  I believe it was a pendant with 
the Mortal Kombat logo, but i could be mistaken.  those eyes, *sigh*, 
were gently masked behind rose tinted lenses in the now famous 
frames.  

whatta man
whatta man
whatta man,
(in the words of salt n' pepa,) whatta mighty good man.
yes he is.

among the frisky crowd, i couldn't quite decipher which of the 
females was the lucky lass, but he was passing out his business 
card... and diamond rings... and apartment keys, so it's obvious he's 
playin' the field.

my breath was baited, but i had to leave the spectacle before i, too, 
was sucked into the hordes of fainting females.  i walked away from 
the red carpet, the pomp and circumstance and felt renewed.

feel it, brothuhs and sistahs.
next week's stalk: jay - beyond the cute exterior lurks a biker gang 
waiting to be released.

                moral:   let's move on, kids.

tongue planted firmly in cheek,
karen

ps... i'm not mean... i just couldn't resist.  maybe it stems from my 
bitterness about missing hOm.  :)