Back when new clothes meant Levis and a red sweater (Go, Cardinals!) and I semi-regularly stunk of sliced onions (stupid sandwich shop), the worst thing you could call someone was a “poser”, or, its more upscale term, a “poseur”.
Posers were sad, confusing creatures who lip-synched to records during school-wide talent shows and spoke with British accents despite having lived their whole lives in the Midwestern United States.
But why, you ask yourself, is this an issue? Am I quitting my job to take up full-time lip-synching? Am I finally through practicing my British accent, ready to bring it to the world?
Ladies and gentlemen, MC Mutter is back on the bus.
Do you know Mr. Mutter? You may even have one in your city. Look around! There he is, hunched forward intensely, eyes narrowed with concentration, grooving to his iPod, his lips moving along to a song only he can hear.
“Awww-huh-huh-huh. Awwwwwwwwwwww yeah.”
Oh, yeah? And a ring-a-ding-ding to you, too, big fella.
The poor li’l SOB. I feel for him. Because I know – being just as delusional myself but too self-conscious to make it manifest on a public bus – that he believes that we are looking at him, not because he’s rocking back and forth, lips twitching, approaching what just may be an epileptic seizure, but because we admire his rhythm, his musical talent, his flow.
The girl sitting next to him is posing, too, and will be reading for the part of Rapper’s Girl #3. Glad to see that she’s dressed appropriately for it: That’s a whole lot of cleavage happening for mid-January, and the man sitting across from that pair is having a hard time reading his paper today.
Just wait until she stands up again – did you know that her butt is “Juicy”?
At least that’s what the seat of her pants say.
They got off at the light rail, those two, no doubt taking their show to the Mall of America, where they will impress others of their kind, gathering in rambunctious groups of saggy-pantsed and Juicy-butted angst.
Bettered by Feathers
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