Fully Validated Kanye West Retires To Quiet Farm In Iowa
‘I Got All The Approval I Needed,’ Content Former Pop Star Says
From The Onion, but an entertaining article nonetheless.
Up until this very moment I’d never even once considered Kanye West’s potential culinary abilities. The more I think about it the more I like the idea. We should probably just hurry up and get married to be honest with you.
Pardon? My greatest achievement of 2010? Well how thoughtful of you to ask. If you’d have asked me 24 hours ago I’d have probably said that furthering this exciting yet somewhat directionless life I have in a foreign country by getting a job, making new friends and generally doing all right for myself was the achievement about which I was most proud.
If however you’d have asked me about 20 hours ago, my biggest achievement of 2010 would definitely be getting reblogged into FuckYeahSamTsui.
Perhaps a little bit too much?
But I do heart Sam Tsui and it was a Secret Santa gift so I reckon I’m allowed to wear it out. Yes, I should just embrace how sad I am and wear a T-shirt proclaiming my love for someone off the internet.
Video: Kanye West performs at Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade
How could you not fancy someone who looks like that? Apart from the miming, please tell me one thing that is not fanciable about Kanye West in this video.
(via fuckyeahkanyewest)
I don’t think god created enough words to adequately describe the amount of excitement with which this video fills me. Sam Tsui does inexplicable things to me mentally. I’m not sure if at the end the whole wife-beater-and-backwards-cap bit is one huge joke but I don’t really mind. I just think that if we ever met we would get along really well. I’d make sure of it.
In general I don’t ‘like’ things on facebook; I find these incessant groups futile and inexplicably infuriating. But recently I’ve fallen in love with Sam Tsui thanks to this video.
I cannot stop watching it, I feel I have to watch it at least once to get through the day now. It’s practically an addiction. I am addicted to Sam Tsui. It’s everything about it, his cute little face, how happy he looks, the way his tongue pokes out really far for no reason… EVERYTHING.
And when he sings the Katy Perry line, ‘you make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream, the way you turn me on’ I become a 13 year old girl. Giddy at the knees, my heart flutters and I feel like Sam Tsui is the only man in the world.
Because of all of this, Sam Tsui has become the only thing I’ve ‘liked’ on facebook and I’m not even ashamed.
legendary
This is frustrating me. Kanye West is currently in Paris and SO AM I. Please, if there is really a lord of any kind out there, let me cross Kanye at some point over the next few days. Paris is only 33 square miles from one side to the other, it’s surely not that unlikely to bump into my favourite person in the world, is it?
Why did he have to die? The good ones always die. People say the best looking men are gay but I think it’s the opposite; the best looking men are dead.
I was queuing at Victoria coach station in London to check-in for the coach to Paris yesterday. I clocked a man queuing next to me and instantly sub-consciously thought, ‘French’. I can spot a Frenchman a mile off in the same way a Frenchman can spot an Englishman from thirty miles; we all have stereotypical characteristics which generally end up being true.
In the next queue at the departure gate I had just finished filling in my luggage tag when the guy tapped me on the shoulder and said, in his best English accent, “can I borrow your … euhh … pen?” I obliged and he thanked me. He returned the pen and I turned away. He was slightly shorter than me, wearing a deep red chequered shirt (which I later found out he got from Hollister, one of his favourite shops in London) on top of a black round-necked tee shirt. His hair was fair, though not blonde, and his eyes were a light shade of green. Anyone could tell he was attractive, but while my ability to point out our continental cousins in a crowd of people is second to none, my ineptitude in deciding whether a man is gay or straight is a constant source of embarrassment for me.
“So… you’re another Matthew?” I heard him say.
I turned round to check if he was talking to me. “Excuse me?”
“You are called Matthew,” he said, pointing to the tag on my suitcase. “I am also called Matthew.”
“Oh, lovely. Hello, Matthew. Great name, isn’t it?” I said in the awkward and sarcastic way I usually do when faced with a good-looking man who may or may not be gay and who may or may not be interested in me.
Light conversation ensued. He was a student in a preparatory school (a mad French obsession) in Toulouse learning to be an Air Traffic Controller. He had spent a week in London staying near “Chephard’s Bush” with a family friend in order to improve his English as part of his studies. He was impressed by my ability to speak French - the French just don’t expect English people to want to or to actually go ahead and learn a language, let alone theirs - and was interested in my studies and where I live in England: “is it like the countryside in the movies? A big house set among lots of trees and fields?”
“Yes, it is,” I laughed, even though my home town and its environs don’t resemble anything less than the leafy and idyllic British countryside. I was smitten. But was he interested? I tried to work it out: he’d been the one who’d asked to borrow my pen - sure, it could have been nothing more than an innocent request to facilitate his filling in of a necessary document, but then that could have been what he wanted it to look like; really it was a massive way in to conversation. Yes! That was it. Conversation. He’d started the conversation. He’d looked at the tag on my bag and commented on my name. He didn’t have to; every day you probably cross dozens of people with the same name as you, but he chose me. Yes, he chose me. For a while I liked this idea as we carried on chatting.
But then. Then. Then he dropped it. The bombshell. It was 1998 when Bill Clinton admitted to having shoved a cigar up Monica Lewinsky’s vagina. It was Coronation Street when Hayley told Roy she was a man. This was it.
“I was supposed to be on an EasyJet flight this morning,” he started, “but it was cancelled because of the volcano.”
“Oh yes, of course,” I carried on, “well at least you’re not stuck here. Have you booked a train down to Toulouse from Paris then?”
“No, not yet. My girlfriend lives in Paris so I’m going to stay with her for a few days, I think.”
That was it. A bombshell of epic proportions; a bombshell Hitler would have been proud to have dropped. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t like me. He was just an English-loving French guy who wanted to talk to an English person his own age to practice his English. To show it off. An English-loving French guy who has a girlfriend.
“Ah.. your girlfriend? I see.. I see.” I didn’t see. I had never seen anything less. “Well, that should be.. uhh.. nice.”
I carried on the conversation idly having totally lost the will to live. Luckily for me, as it transpired, we were on the same service but a different coach. We said our farewells and went out separate ways. He wished me good luck in my studies, I reciprocated and said that I hoped he enjoyed his stay in Paris, whispering obscenities about his bitch of a girlfriend under my breath. And I will probably never see him again.
And there you have it. Just another attempted conquest, brought on mainly by confusion and frustration, leading ultimately and fundamentally to failure. Welcome to my world.
