I don’t use words like ‘lol’, or ‘lolo’ or’ fomo’. I don’t ‘LFMAO’ nor do I ‘Yolo’. I do though Moma and I can play yoyo like no other. I ain’t no Trend surfer, or trend getter. I don’t listen to Justin Beaver nor Highveld Stereo. I listen to my ipod or i spin my vinyl in mono. I wear blue velvet, but I don’t eat Red. I share my rolo, and I eat bolo. I never was into Marcels, but I loved to lick Carvel.
I don’t call myself an ‘entrepeneur’ on Linked In. I don’t surf no social wave, but I would crowd surf.
It was on this day in April that I tramped the trend travellator, hopped into my Toyo’, and headed out for some ‘Fro Yo’.
A ‘fro-yo’ asteroid has rocked Jozi and as we left our red velvets sprawled on the windshield as a splattered flying insect on our journey to our next trending destination, we headed to victory park for food far greater, far smoother.
The Filo store is wedged on the bend of a strip mall with a Spur spaghetti-twisted playground it’s back drop and the glowing Woolies and their futuristic food in the foreground.
There I stood on the wooded floors, grabbed a Filo bucket and with a firm grip of the knob protruding from the stainless steel dispenser called “Spaceman” I pulled hard on the throttle engaging the flow of dense starry eyed frozen yoghurt. And being whipped into hyper space I didn’t want to let go of the swirling excitement.
Feeling like a fighter pilot engaging the full propulsion of the thrusters the experience engaged.
I rocked the base with the mint green of pistachio and topped it off with the chocolate hazelnut cos I don’t do fruits. I’m no tree hugger but it so happened the colours were leafy and complimentary. My cup brimming, I by-passed the smarties avoiding a coronary and sat my bucket upon the weight watcher scale, leaving it looking sheepishly left. right. and left again.
The tarty choc sweetened by the dribbly lick of the ‘stachio. This was no movember but I made a yoghurt moustache. Look ma, i’m a hipster.
Having arrived feeling as though i’d swallowed a turbo boosted chain saw, swallowing lactate would be against all doctors orders but it was the sticky sweetness of the yoghurt dessert that soothed my firey tonsils.
Sundays in the roaring ol’ eighties were often dedicated to a road excursion to a Carvel ice cream and this little journey ripped that memory from my brains bank and heaved it to the forefront.
For one small moment I felt like the fighter pilot I’d always wanted to be. For one small moment I felt like I’d been given a nickname like ‘Maverick’ or ’the Sherminator’. For one small moment I felt like I’d experienced the gravity of 300 G’s.
But for that one small moment I tstill didn’t feel like I’d just made sweet love to Kelly Mcgillis.
I don’t call myself an ‘entrepeneur’ on Linked In. I don’t surf no social wave, but I would crowd surf.
It was on this day in April that I tramped the trend travellator, hopped into my Toyo’, and headed out for some ‘Fro Yo’.
A ‘fro-yo’ asteroid has rocked Jozi and as we left our red velvets sprawled on the windshield as a splattered flying insect on our journey to our next trending destination, we headed to victory park for food far greater, far smoother.
The Filo store is wedged on the bend of a strip mall with a Spur spaghetti-twisted playground it’s back drop and the glowing Woolies and their futuristic food in the foreground.
There I stood on the wooded floors, grabbed a Filo bucket and with a firm grip of the knob protruding from the stainless steel dispenser called “Spaceman” I pulled hard on the throttle engaging the flow of dense starry eyed frozen yoghurt. And being whipped into hyper space I didn’t want to let go of the swirling excitement.
Feeling like a fighter pilot engaging the full propulsion of the thrusters the experience engaged.
I rocked the base with the mint green of pistachio and topped it off with the chocolate hazelnut cos I don’t do fruits. I’m no tree hugger but it so happened the colours were leafy and complimentary. My cup brimming, I by-passed the smarties avoiding a coronary and sat my bucket upon the weight watcher scale, leaving it looking sheepishly left. right. and left again.
The tarty choc sweetened by the dribbly lick of the ‘stachio. This was no movember but I made a yoghurt moustache. Look ma, i’m a hipster.
Having arrived feeling as though i’d swallowed a turbo boosted chain saw, swallowing lactate would be against all doctors orders but it was the sticky sweetness of the yoghurt dessert that soothed my firey tonsils.
Sundays in the roaring ol’ eighties were often dedicated to a road excursion to a Carvel ice cream and this little journey ripped that memory from my brains bank and heaved it to the forefront.
For one small moment I felt like the fighter pilot I’d always wanted to be. For one small moment I felt like I’d been given a nickname like ‘Maverick’ or ’the Sherminator’. For one small moment I felt like I’d experienced the gravity of 300 G’s.
But for that one small moment I tstill didn’t feel like I’d just made sweet love to Kelly Mcgillis.
