The introduction of pure metrosexuality into modern culture has bred some interesting mutinies of biology. Demand for male hair products continues to sky rocket as men further their glitter encrusted journey through Avon tour guides and aloe-verification. Some, however, have gone truly awry. Too deep they've gone, too stiff are their frosted tips; even Ronald McDonald would cringe at the amount of self preparation needed in order for these long lost beauties to bare their torsos, their sexy, hairy torsos, to the public. And yet there are those who've gone even further. There are those who soar like the Double Down KFC sammie in the mind's eye of an obese child in the throes of grease laden adolescence. These truly immaculate individuals no longer deal with the efforts of gravity, the milling about of humanity, the effortlessness of perfection: they've transcended it. Adorned as one would a Christmas wreath they are shining so bright for pageant squinted glares. So stupid, so cool, so sloppy: SO chic. When shit hits the fan it arcs straight away from them in an awe inspiring radial pattern. Splattering fecally they aren't one for treatment other than salon quality. Professional quality. Kooky bongos mysteriously carry a whacky beat amongst them as they saunter down the aisles of grit, glitz, and street tits. Tripped once they'll fall further higher until clouds gather their dewy entrails together again to go to that Beauty Shop in the Sky. The Glamor Slaughterhouse where they'll get that last dose of acid scalp and dandruff eradication. Dry skin be damned they'll show this world why we all long to drop our tattered skins and treat this world like a goddamned stripper pole glistening with rainbow refracted oil slick.
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