Your Hat...

I like your hat. It looks like something I would wear if I wore hats. Why don't I wear hats? My head is shaped weird. It's like a pile of mashed potatoes filled with Skittles and Milk Duds. While that sounds delicious, it is anything but uniform in shape.

Back to your hat, though. I like it. You look like one of those kids who stands on the corner yelling, "Extry! Extry! Read all about it! Henry Ford's new autocars fueled by dinosaur blood!" That is ripped verbatim from turn of the century (20th, not 21st) headlines. It's like an episode of Law & Order: Special Leeching Unit.

What's this post about? Nothing really. Well, your hat. Don't change the subject. I want it. I know I told you earlier that I don't wear hats, but I would if I had your hat. No. I don't want to know where you bought it. I won't go out and buy one. I want your hat--the one on your head right now. Come on.

Okay, fine. I'll buy it from you. What do you mean it's not for sale? Everything is for sale. How do you think I got this shirt? I bought it, duh. Well, oh, now that I look at it, I didn't actually buy this one. Yes. I know it's not technically even clothing. I fell into the barrel of glaze at the Krispy Kreme. If I don't move much, though, it doesn't flake off. It's scaly; I feel like a lizard who haunts diabetics' nightmares. At least for once the sprinkles I put on my junk every morning don't seem out of place.

Your hat is stupid anyway. I mean, what kind of hat has a button in the front? That's a hat that wants to be pants. Well, hat, I have some bad news, you're not pants. You know what are pants? These. Oh, glaze again. Whatever. Yeah. I don't want your hat. You couldn't pay me to take it. In fact, I hate it. I wish that it never even existed, like Josh Hartnett. I hate your hat as much as I hate Josh Hartnett. If you knew how much I hated him, that would mean a lot to you.

What? I can have it? No way! Awesome!