KillerWhalePettingZoo

This was an ad campaign for a hipster bar in California, but lacking a proper art director, stylist, makeup artist, etc. I quickly took creative control. The model was supposed to be riding a tricycle while drinking fancy champagne. We would soon learn champagne stings when it gets in your eyes. I say “we” because after I burst out laughing at her while she was in pain she coaxed me into to splashing some in my own eyes; soon I was howling like a little piece of shit. Apparently beer doesn’t hurt, so I started cracking PBR’s and told her to just spray it everywhere, and “see what happens.”

From now on I’m only drinking out of cans, preferably tall boys. I’m not sure if it’s the slight metallic aftertaste, or if that’s just my imagination. Somewhere along the line, upper-middle-class-pretentious hipsters appropriated the 1940’s working class vices: Parliament cigarettes, army boots, suspenders, and PBR. Wait a second… that sounds kinda like me, I should kick my own ass. Anyways I was trying to make a statement about the irony of paying for overpriced vintage t-shirts and then destroying them to create trash-chic fashion, but figured it would be easier to just to have her get messy in something lacey from Victoria’s Secret.

One of my friends is in a bet to collect all the Arizona Iced Tea tall cans. I was driving back from Las Vegas with a serious hang over, the girl in the passenger seat was still dancing to techno music, and the girl in the rear was passed out on top of a 14ft. flamingo. I was moody and I wanted to shank anything within a ¼ mile radius. Franny, the flamingo, was the ultimate carnival prize that I obtained without ever going to a carnival. I won’t go near those fucking places because usually everyone I attend with wants to ride the roller coaster and I have an irrational fear of those stemming back to being “this tall” and slipping out of the lap bar on Space Mountain while everyone else groped each other during the dark tunnel plunge.

When I went to the guy’s house I met off Craigslist he offered me a $10 discount if I let him take photos of my struggle to fit the flamingo into the back seat. If you’re gonna jerk off over photos of my ass bent over against my car… just say so; I wouldn’t be offended. I couldn’t manage to jam the bird in there so its head was sticking out the sunroof; I inadvertently created a traffic hazard and a complete chick magnet. At every stoplight girls wanted to talk to me, hell it was better than having a dog and I didn’t have to pick up its shit either.

One of the rest stops near Las Vegas had 14 versions of Arizona Iced Tea, I emailed my buddy after the trip and he nearly had a stroke. That rest stop was something out of a generic horror movie, eerily quiet with moldy peanuts and cheap Route 66 tank tops for sale. A Zoltar machine guarded the entry way and the sheik with a head scarf would tell your fortune for $1.75. I couldn’t figure out where to take a leak, and then realized I had to piss into some fake waterfall, or a Koi pond. I don’t know what the hell it was, but it didn’t have urinal cakes and the presence of painted fish on the wall made me uneasy. My friend claims he’s up to 23, but he’s stuck on finding the elusive final can. You can’t even score it on Ebay. It was an extremely short-run in Walgreens or some shit. It’s the Arnold Palmer half-lemonade/half-iced tea, “with a real golf ball on top!”; “limited collector’s edition.” I’m not sure if this thing exists, it seems so far-fetched that it’s more than likely an urban legend. Are you even supposed to play with the ball? It’s such a collector’s item it’s like going to the batting cages with something signed by Babe Ruth. In any event, it was an idiotic marketing scheme, because any golf ball sitting on top of a tall can seems like a fucking choking hazard lawsuit waiting to happen.