The O.J. Simpson series people are enjoying lately is, in my opinion, a low grade docu-drama, and the acting is a disappointment. Just to be sociable, I'll fess that the show has the thin broth of a worthy legend to carry it along.
Not a complete failure, there's a few things worth gaffing out of the video news/info tuna boat. Like O.J.'s athletic resistance to prosecution. That, to me, is the nearest thing, in the pile, to his glory days of being a football hero. I'm seeing a message emerge from the tuna: Sometimes, when the better half of your career is over, and phase two turns out to be hard on the ex-spouse and her coffee/latte pal, there is trouble, and closeted derangement runs unfashionably, you have to put your best Buno Magli forward and deal with the mess you are in. Our declined sports hero did that, and made a notable court case mighty special. Misfortunes aside, an observer may form comparisons.
Yours truly appears to be in reasonable condition, though worse for wear. I'm calling the current life situation the third phase of a shabby little career, but the O.J. flap yielded an operating principle that can be applied. I will lace my ugly-ass foot ware, play golf with people, have embarrassing photos taken, and walk tall in the unfortunate black hybrid Chuka boots. But that's just being a drama queen. There were a lot of drama queens at O.J.'s trial, so I feel the forces of a completely fucked up shitload of kindred spirits. And I am a fool for a good unifying theory.
The shoes aren't really as hideous as O.J. made them out to be. Bruno Magli got a raw deal in all those piney justice proceedings. It may have been poor sportsmanship on O.J's part to speak so abusively about a pair of shoes that showed promise as a fashion item. It is this one fish steak, among so many, that raises my tail fins. You won't catch me trash talking Christian Dior just to get my ass out of trouble. My code of personal honor forbids that kind of behavior.
There has to be a moral to this shit. Sometimes you have to type one up, print it out on a pre-cut sheet of file labels, and stick a few of them on your matching Gucci luggage ensemble. When something truly dreadful happens, and it gets all sexed up in the news, and is then knitted into a gaudy cardigan sweater that is a rather shitty docu-drama, and there was a gruesome double homicide, only a real dickhead would neglect to fish from it all some type of watchword.
People should dress well, and keep the fucking gray matter working a mite more properly than did one O.J. Simpson. Love-sick super-jocks can be dangerous. Disgruntled postal workers can be dangerous. And so can all sorts of people who allow themselves to become deranged, homicidal pieces of shit. You won't catch me getting that fucked up. I'm mellow. Thanks for reading.
Not a complete failure, there's a few things worth gaffing out of the video news/info tuna boat. Like O.J.'s athletic resistance to prosecution. That, to me, is the nearest thing, in the pile, to his glory days of being a football hero. I'm seeing a message emerge from the tuna: Sometimes, when the better half of your career is over, and phase two turns out to be hard on the ex-spouse and her coffee/latte pal, there is trouble, and closeted derangement runs unfashionably, you have to put your best Buno Magli forward and deal with the mess you are in. Our declined sports hero did that, and made a notable court case mighty special. Misfortunes aside, an observer may form comparisons.
Yours truly appears to be in reasonable condition, though worse for wear. I'm calling the current life situation the third phase of a shabby little career, but the O.J. flap yielded an operating principle that can be applied. I will lace my ugly-ass foot ware, play golf with people, have embarrassing photos taken, and walk tall in the unfortunate black hybrid Chuka boots. But that's just being a drama queen. There were a lot of drama queens at O.J.'s trial, so I feel the forces of a completely fucked up shitload of kindred spirits. And I am a fool for a good unifying theory.
The shoes aren't really as hideous as O.J. made them out to be. Bruno Magli got a raw deal in all those piney justice proceedings. It may have been poor sportsmanship on O.J's part to speak so abusively about a pair of shoes that showed promise as a fashion item. It is this one fish steak, among so many, that raises my tail fins. You won't catch me trash talking Christian Dior just to get my ass out of trouble. My code of personal honor forbids that kind of behavior.
There has to be a moral to this shit. Sometimes you have to type one up, print it out on a pre-cut sheet of file labels, and stick a few of them on your matching Gucci luggage ensemble. When something truly dreadful happens, and it gets all sexed up in the news, and is then knitted into a gaudy cardigan sweater that is a rather shitty docu-drama, and there was a gruesome double homicide, only a real dickhead would neglect to fish from it all some type of watchword.
People should dress well, and keep the fucking gray matter working a mite more properly than did one O.J. Simpson. Love-sick super-jocks can be dangerous. Disgruntled postal workers can be dangerous. And so can all sorts of people who allow themselves to become deranged, homicidal pieces of shit. You won't catch me getting that fucked up. I'm mellow. Thanks for reading.
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