Dec 14, 2010
330 notes
T’was the night before Crispymas.
When all through the house.
Not a blogger was stirring.
Not even the scrubs who still use Typepad.
Their J. Crew camp socks were hung by the chimney with care.
In hopes that Saint Steezus soon would be there.
But on the real.
Things are gonna be a little different this year.
Because I’ve Tumbl’d my list.
I’ve checked that motherfucker twice.
And it’s safe to say.
None of you clowns are even remotely nice.
Fabo voice.
Shit, son.
You’re not even worth a lump of coal.
Or an Aeropostale giftcard.
So don’t bother staying up late.
Waiting for the sound of tassel loafs.
Scurrying across your rooftop.
Don’t leave me a plate of fresh dub monks.
And a tall glass of High Life.
Nah, fuck that noise.
I’m out.
I’m leaving my red barn jacket and 12” Beans at the Northern most pole.
And skipping town.
Hitting up Firenze.
With loved ones.
My family of linens and ginghams.
My vintage Schwinn sleigh.
And I aint making no fucking toys.
I’ll be too busy sonning herbs.
Like the corny dude with that fake Twitter handle tryna ride my coattails.
Do I look like Vinny G?
Like editors who think I ghostwrite J. Peterman bars.
Do I look like Johnny O?
They say this is the season of giving.
So I might as well toss all you suckas a bone.
Merry Crispymas.
And a steezy New Year.

T’was the night before Crispymas.

When all through the house.

Not a blogger was stirring.

Not even the scrubs who still use Typepad.

Their J. Crew camp socks were hung by the chimney with care.

In hopes that Saint Steezus soon would be there.

But on the real.

Things are gonna be a little different this year.

Because I’ve Tumbl’d my list.

I’ve checked that motherfucker twice.

And it’s safe to say.

None of you clowns are even remotely nice.

Fabo voice.

Shit, son.

You’re not even worth a lump of coal.

Or an Aeropostale giftcard.

So don’t bother staying up late.

Waiting for the sound of tassel loafs.

Scurrying across your rooftop.

Don’t leave me a plate of fresh dub monks.

And a tall glass of High Life.

Nah, fuck that noise.

I’m out.

I’m leaving my red barn jacket and 12” Beans at the Northern most pole.

And skipping town.

Hitting up Firenze.

With loved ones.

My family of linens and ginghams.

My vintage Schwinn sleigh.

And I aint making no fucking toys.

I’ll be too busy sonning herbs.

Like the corny dude with that fake Twitter handle tryna ride my coattails.

Do I look like Vinny G?

Like editors who think I ghostwrite J. Peterman bars.

Do I look like Johnny O?

They say this is the season of giving.

So I might as well toss all you suckas a bone.

Merry Crispymas.

And a steezy New Year.

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