A finely-tailored Jitbag is a step up in underwear size. FTJ is the brightest star on the horizon, the party next door (or is it just the neighbor two down listening alone to her stereo at a party level?) and a container of mixed nuts which contains raisins which can sing and softshoe like they were from some mythical place called “Southside”.
Only the raisins in the Jitbag choose not to, and that star on the horizon is actually an omen signifying the arrival of yet another televangelist on this Earth — it’s also the planet little babies who weren’t baptized go to, and there they forever hold helium balloons while their mothers fret and fathers read the paper thinking all the while, “The child’s got to learn sometime.”
Oh, and the little babies spit up everywhere so it’s not a planet you would want to visit. At least not without a finely-tailored pair of galoshes.
A finely-tailored Jitbag can reclaim the sounds which have been wiggled into your head. FTJ can redefine classic rock as the jellyrolls around your waistline redefine your life. FTJ can hold your hand and get it all sweaty and leave you worried that if you do not invest in bioenergy then the Kentucky National Guard will have built a wall around your house come morn.
When sitting on your couch, in front of the brain drainer, just letting your dog bark at all the passerby traffic as they walk into the perverts basement and volunteer to have the void between their ears filled with the joyous wonders of a cesspool.
Listen and do whatever.
(Except don’t play tracks #4 and #5 before midnight on your radio show ‘cause they say “fuck” in there somewhere.)
Edited by mastershultz on 29 Sep 2012, 17:22
Sources (view history)
“What is a finely-tailored Jitbag?” by Rolly Henrins, The Ironman Workout (Magazine) vol. 4, July 2004
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