Friday, July 21, 2006


Esther Baxter. Damn. DAMN. DAMN. DAMN.

I have so much I would like to blog about. Seriously. Not having the internet at work is killing me. But I'll just do this short bit, a short bit about Esther Baxter, the most hottingest woman to ever live on the planet Earth (hi, luvumscrunch!).

Okay. Sorry about that. I didn't see that weird-ass thing coming. That's what happens when you're drunk. You start worrying about the other people reading your blog. Both of them. That's right. The E.B. isn't as hot as you. Not nearly. Seriously. If that goddess face and break-molds-for-the-sake-of-breakin'-molds (shouldn't-ever-make-another-human, move-on-to-some-other-species) body should ever walk into my sad little world and tell me that I'm the man of her mutha-fuggin' dreams, the first words out of my mouth are, "Woman, I got a girl." Seriously. No second thoughts. None at all. None.

Anyway, I should be writing about Gilbert Hernandez' Sloth (which isn't as good as his Palomar work but is Tony the Tiger grrrreat in a Lost Highway way), but I'm writing about Esther Baxter.

Because I can.

Since I can't get onto the internet during a particlarly slow period at work, I've found myself buying the magazines: The Source, Rue Morgue, Screem, Scientific American, Juxtapose and, damn-it-if-the-gods-ain't-smilin', Black Men issue 68: SSX Presents... ESTHER BAXTER.

I first "discovered" Esther in XXL's Eye Candy. A shout out to King Leisure (messer Marcos Pérez), the greatest retoucher in all the lands, for getting a job at King magazine and getting free copies of a magazine that would touch me like your dirty Uncle Ernie. In the photoshoot featuring Ms. Baxter, she is photographed covering herself with honey. Covering her perfect 5'7", 34DD-24-40 frame in honey. HONEY! With one of those honeycomb sticks! I saw a lady that night should be havin' my baby. My baby. Or, you know, shouldn't be havin' my baby but should be causin' me to catch a cramp in my leg. I was in love. True, unconditional, love. Probably the only time I've felt that way about someone in a magazine.

So, imagine my suprise when I see Esther Baxter magazine. Okay, the mag has it's flaws. Not the least of which is that cover. What?! Why is Esther bleached?!?! It's embarassing, and Black Men magazine should be fuckin' ashamed. But inside (and inside a woman is all that really matters) is spectacular. It's 98% Esther (for some reason there's two other chicks at the end) minus the ads. Esther, Esther, Esther.

Oh, sweet Esther. If a rose smelled as sweet, they wouldn't be able to call it a rose anymore.

Sure, she's a video girl. Sure, she's dating some dude from the NBA. But she's got an Associate's Degree. Sure, she's a model. Sure, "video girl" isn't the term and she's actually a "video ho." What does that really mean? I say, it just means that videos pretty much suck (sorry, Uncle Ralph!) and the people who make them suck almost as hard as the people who would coin suckh a phrase. Sure, I haven't a snowball's chance in the sun of Hell of even being in the same state as her. None of this matters. All that matters is, (excuse me while I cry under this rock) I have my magazine.

And it's a perfect magazine. Maybe THE perfect magazine. It has everything a human being could want (Well, maybe they could use a proofreader. "Hundreds of woman," Marcus Blassingame? I'll do it freelance. I come cheap! I'll even remind you how cool your name is when you're down!).

Esther Baxter. Remember that name. Soon enough, it could be Esther Baxter-Fox. And then you'll see my name, splattered across tabloids, as the guy who went a-rampagin' like Lizzie the Lizard, murderin' that other guy named Fox, and crying out, "He killed my Family Ties joke! He killed it! Not in a good way!"

Then R.E.M. will write a song about it all and Esther will perform it with them on David Letterman, resulting in people questioning her ethics. Years later, she'll report a third-hand story that gets semi-discredited and people will lose all faith in her, prefering a reporter who revealed the entirety of her colon to the unemployed masses of America.

Our future may not be bright, Esther, but at least you won't have to wear shades.

Wow. I must be really drunk. Oh. Look at the time, Morris Day...

(Disclaimer: None of the above are from this mag. I suck.)


Blogger Marcos Perez said...

i sense your traffic will increase.
and interestingly enough, it seems blogger has reverted to its old photo deal. No more downloads!

11:25 AM  

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