8th
Don’t know what’s with this whole “celebrity entourage” bullshit that’s been reblogged about twenty million times, other than the fact that this Tumblechh is inching closer to MySpace than it is to a blogging platform (“MySchmutz”?). What about a bloggy entourage? If I were to ditch you ignorant sluts for some flesh-and-bones bloggers:
Krucoff - Obviously. We need someone to follow. Also: street cred. Even though I feel as if he’d fail miserably in any kind of bar fight situation, he would certainly succeed in instigating it, which, when you roll deep, is what really counts. Also, Conde Nasterds heads roll off if you smack them at the right angle, which we’re certain he knows.
99 - So they can mistake me for him, or him for me, or me for impersonating him impersonating me impersonating him. It provides cover.
Balk - For when Krucoff runs away. Balk will smoke a motherfucker.
CajunBoy - Can probably throw down, too, and we don’t have to explain what the fuck a BoJangles is to him. Southern roots make him a liability in a bad situation, one that’s typically advantageous for a gang of our stripe.
Who does that make Turtle, though? Our agent could be Jason Fox, he seems to know this game, even though a second-rate shop like WMA might not be good enough for the likes of us - we want a CAA team, motherfuckers. We roll up to book parties in a fucked up Buick Skylark with suicide doors and a stereo that only plays treble, and we end up pissing ourselves in a hot tub at some high rise shit-structure pink-glass hotel in the Lower East Side we resent for existing until we get some under 25’s in there with us. Probably girls who work at College Humor or something, some NYMag interns, something like that. Yeah, that’s the type.
