Prince Hot Ginge has a warm heart made of a million Care Bear stares and he loves helping children as much as he loves snorting vodka shots in the middle of a club. And yesterday, on the 14th anniversary of his mother’s death, PHG warmed the souls of ill children with his sunburnt smile at the Wellchild Awards in London and someone just had to give him that balloon. I guess that balloon is supposed to be a rose, or some shit, but I’ve never seen a rose like that. If roses looked like that, I would be sitting on a rose bush right now and I wouldn’t even be mad about the fact that I’d be pooping out thorns for the next few hours. Wouldn’t be the first time.
But really. Somebody just had to give PHG that balloon and he just had to hold it up to his crotch like that and all of this just had to happen while in the presence of children. They’re just fucking with me now. They’re testing my ass. How can I get dirty about PHG’s big long balloon with a fat head when there’s chirruns around? Everybody knows that I’m always THINKING OF THE CHILDREN so I can’t possibly taint their ears with the lukewarm dingles of inappropriateness that come dripping out of my mouth. But I will say that even thought it’d give me rubber burns on the no-no and bits of balloon would permanently live up in my gut, I still would.
And I’ve just realized that I wrote way too many characters about doing stuff with Prince Hot Ginge’s balloon (A BALLOON!) while sitting at my mom’s kitchen table. Some people have Aha! moments. I just had an Aha Aniston moment. If you need me, I’ll just be here forever alone.