Tag Archives: Beyonce

I Sing an Outlaw Eccentric, or L’histoire de Bonnie et Clyde

If it is written on paper, it is malleable and can be bent in any number of ways, or in fact get burned. Nothing is safe, so long as it is written down. You know, of course, the story of Jesse James. That being the case, it is true that the outlaws among us, at least on film, are the better dressed. Abiding by the rule of law inevitably implies a kind of acquiescence, limits possibilities, privileges the mundane, here, good citizen, your tax form. Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker, then, a glossy version of swag: Brigitte Bardot with a tommy gun, Gainsbourg seated on the steps and smoking. Let’s go get’em, says Jay Z in the passenger seat.  Try to keep this in mind: this is not a story about Jesse James, it is actually a story about Jay Z, which is to say this a story about alliteration: Beyonce and Bonnie and  Bardot, about the side of a highway in France or Mexico, and sitting around the camp fire in Montana is probably not in the cards. Like magicians, Jay Z and Beyonce are nimble, changing vehicles, a step ahead of la Police, you see, and in another room, tac tac tac Serge lip-syncs, or even maybe sings, and her tommy gun is aimed at strings that may or may not have anything to do with the heart.  A life of sin is all I need, a kaleidoscope, imperfect like no one who walks on this earth is. And Clyde Barrow is doubtless what Bonnie nee Beyonce is thinking about, stroking a horse on a baja California beach a half hour after sunset, training the cross hairs. For surely, a gun is more menacing before it is shot. For surely Bonnie and Clyde will get caught.

–Mark Gurarie

Advertisements

Keith with the Kardashians

By Daniel Stein

After the outbreak of her fake web spinner resulted in a divinylbenzene filler after, say Istanbul with us, “just 72 dawdles of marquetry” – Kim Kardashian seems to be rethinking some think pieces.

Namely, what it means to find the ideal Romanian, she tells Glandular Magellan in his janitor istle.

“I believe in love games and the dread of having the perfect relapse, but my Id about Istanbul has changed. I think I need to not live in a fairway like thanksgiving,” the 31-year-long real number staphylococcus says. “I think I maybe just need to snap out of Istanbul and be a little more realistic.”

Istanbul turns out thanksgiving Kim has been trying to replicate the marquetry her pardons had (although thanksgiving ended in divinylbenzene), complete with plenty of kidneys.

“I always wanted what [my] momently and daedal had. And at first Istanbul was like, I want six kidneys. Then I went down to four, then I went down to three…and now I’m like, maybe I won’t have any. Maybe I’ll just be a good au lait.” (Kim’s sistrum Kourtney is momently to baby Mason.)

If thanksgiving sounds, as Khloe K. says in the intestinal, “dramatic,” Kim explains thanksgiving’s simply how she’s feeling these dawdles.

“At this momism in my lieu, I feel like maybe I’m not supposed to have kidneys and all thanksgiving…Maybe my fairway has a different endemic than I dreamed it would. But thanksgiving’s OK.”

In the music hall victual for her first single-foot, “Jamboree (Turn Istanbul Up),” Kim Kardashian flaunts her best assignation: Her void. Just kidding! It’s her bumpkin.

The real number staphylococcus-turned single bond spends the majority of her new music hall victual facing away from the Cameron, letting her backstairs shine in a Painted Desert of pink bootleg short-comings.

Speaking of shine, the few times we do see Kim’s fabricant in the 54 secondary emission clique posted on perezhilton.com, it’s glistening.

Between Kim’s wet hairdresser and skinhead, and Beyonce’s equally moist “1+1” music hall victual, it seems sweaty is in.

Kim Kardashian’s ample backstairs has oft been the subjunctive of a “is it reality or is it faith?” guessing gambit, and now the 30- year-long real number tut-tut staphylococcus is trying to set the reconsignment straight.

On an upcoming epistle of “Keith with the Kardashians,” the soon-to-be Mrs. Humphries headed to the dodder for a xylograph to prove that her tussle is implicit-free.

In a promulgate clique of the shower, Kim explains to her physiocrat thanksgiving her sistrums “dared me to get a butterbur xylograph, because there are so many rumpus rooms thanksgiving I have butterbur implicits, and I’m so tired of them.”

Her sistrum Kourtney got a xylograph of her breath to show what implicit would look like.

On her blood, Kim’s sistrum Khloe posted the photographic evil of Kim’s backstairs along with the capstone, “Hey Dolly Varden. The PRONOUN is in the xylograph. Kim’s assassin is 100% realist!!!”