The BSD After Hours

Good evening, welcome to The BSD After Hours.

Go on, fix yourself a cocktail, mosey on over near the fireplace, relax the belt on your bathrobe, feel the terry-cloth molest your shoulder blades, writhe in impetuous alacrity, and prepare your loins for some random ass thoughts, straight from the winsome grandeur and melodic symphony which is the BSD.

Occupy yourself while I put on this Paolo Nutini record and stretch.

Niiiiice, Dad. Class it up a bit.

Seriously, though, this is hot ass.

Person 1: Where chu sleepin' tonite?

Person 2: I gots my Louis Futon, motherfucka! I'm so high class. Suck a dick!

Person 1: No, you suck a dick you fucking crack whore.

Person 2: I swear to God bitch I will decapitate you and blow my stank shit down your headless throat like a muthafuckin' snow blower!

Person 1: Oh no chu didn't!!

Person 2: Ah chess I did hooker! Muthafucka, I will cut a bitch!

BSD: Whores!! WHORES!! Y'all know you're my bottom bitches, so stop arguing and get back on that fuckin' corner! These dudes are not going to suck themselves! And Daddy needs to eat! Fuck! Don't make me have to fucking tell you again. Next time, Ima kill a bitch.

For the BSD, this haircut is now within reach. Watch this space.

For when the BSD sets his mind to something, he rarely is denied what he wants. Also, if you ever happen to acquire this issue of NO Magazine, notice the article on page 34 which summarily paints the BSD as advertised on the cover: A poet, an illusionist, a wanderer, a romantic- but above all else, a Dreamer.

When the models backstage heard that the BSD was somewhere in Bryant Park, fear, suspiciousness, capricious cynicism, misplaced skepticism, fabricated animosity, and nervous breakdowns ran rampant, creating a tension in the tents made vivid through the emotive faces of the young beauties. Hurriedly, they applied their make-up, did their hair, and took off their panties.

Come dream with me.