Geenstijl

Het is weekend. Hier is een gedicht van Sharon Mesmer. The Swiss just do whatever like masturbating their doink-doinks deep in rural France in the shadow of Mont Blanc. Heavy, dependable and prepared for whatever the Swiss vago-simulacrum recognizes as larder King Hussein and President Fabio, always just about to touch each other on their devolved sparkle-offs and Neil Patrick Harris appreciation pages. Everyone knows when these bizzarre Swiss cometh they cometh with fluffy Beatles-like six packs of shit-covered reindeer knock-knocking like a bummer. Glitter is the Swiss Army knife of the most bedazzlingly ridiculous emotions: the part just before the paranoid cheese-maker says, “Whatever you do in Palm Springs, don’t yodel”—a most unusual Swiss Miss mixture of very early skunk and the robotic sadness of women’s mold heavy, greasy, dense and low, like lethargic sea-green gardens with a buzz overpowering, like modern outdoor inbreeding. You know you’re Swiss when, when foreign visitors ask to see your chocolate factory, you answer, “Why don’t you and Hannibal Lecter just kick out the jams?” ’Cause you know you got the chamber, the chair, and Fear Factor. Het is weekend. Prettig weekend.