Bloom Boom
Hiya, Doll. Rick was tellin’ me the other day that you are goin’ to some hoity toity shindig where everybody but yerself and yer guy are stinkin’ rich. Is that a fact, says I. How many stinkos are gonna be there? At least a hundred, says Rick, maybe two. Then he confides that he has suggested you gow yerself up in some kinda getup you yerself have constituted whereupon I fully agreed what with you bein’ a sleepin’ outsider in the rag trade waitin’ for yer chance to bust open the doors and make yer commencement. So here’s the thing. I don’t know if you been keepin’ up with Seventh Avenue gaudery, frippery and foofaraw, but that shit’s on Planet Boing Boing these days and you'd fit in tighter'n Opra's foot in a Manolo. As a lifetime aficionado of all that is batty, bonkers and loco, may I opine that you get behind yer sewin’ machine and yer knittin’ needle, buy yerself some fire crackers and stink bombs, roses and rainbows and get the fuck to work. This is yer chance, Doll.
Muchos besos,
Buck
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