Truth be told, I’m beside myself with inner peace right the hell now. Inner peace and also a bizarre sensation somewheres between lust and religious ecstasy. No matter how lovelorn and frustrated and embarrassed a fella might feel (and he feels all three, believe me) on this day, Kirstenmass, said fella is given a chance for to reflect on life, on God, on Kirsten, and to note something along the lines of, whatever shit might be going on, at least Kirsten is smiling someplace.
Horrific as it may seem, some folks use April 30th to do all sorts of stupid shit, like maybe go to work or listen to some song or other about Trent Reznor done smacked himself to the teeth but it’s ok, he’s alright now. Kirstenmass has become just another day. Just another day in any old month.
You sicken me.
On this day 23 years ago the Lord God offered unto his lowly servants a gift so precious that it troubles my soul to contemplate a pre-April 30th 1982 time.
Thankfully I wasn’t born till a week later, so, worked out well. Cheers, The Lord.
Today is Kirstenmass. On this very day, back those 23 years ago, The Lord saw fit to grace humanity with a gift I spend my every waking hour thanking him for, but which I know I will never truly be worthy of. The Lord looked down upon the earth, and shook his head for a fortnight on account of the horrors he was witnessing. A world just about to step into the filthy sludge of yuppie consumerism and boy bands and still troubling itself far too much with regards the Soviets. A world that, pre-Kirsten, had shagged itself into some sort of uninhabitable void, a cranny in the arsehole of the universe that no-one in their right mind would wish to be part of. The Lord saw we had lost direction, and had focused too much on the darkness hiding away in the back of the skull, and so he said something along the lines of, “It’s high time you got some light into your lives, various humans.”
And so there was Kirsten.
How can you think about killing each other or making filth with your wife’s parrots, when look, look at Her dimples and eyes and, oh dear god, look at Her hands. Hands that have been abused no end by wretched motherfuckers high to the teeth on the possibilities of Photoshop, and so replaced Her beautiful fingers with some CGI variant on the cover of Spider-Man 2.
You sons of bitches.
But Kirsten suffers this shame, because Her hands are far too precious for to hold anything so distasteful as a grudge.
She could’ve kicked the arseholes off of those Punk’d motherfuckers, and said “Look here, you had me weeping! Why? Did you Punk Gandhi? And yet here you are, Punkin’ me no end.”
She could’ve, but She didn’t.
She just goes about her business, goes about inspiring a fella’s heart for to choke on its own love-fluid on account of Her dimples and Her eyes and Her hair and Her hands.
So, on this Kirstenmass I will make a note of all who have slighted me, from generic jock types to the very yakuza, and I will burn that piece of paper. Kirsten would have it no other way.
Then, I’ll sit down with Dick and The Crow 3 – Salvation, followed by Bring It On and Mona Lisa Smile, both Spider-Men, and topping it off with some Wimbledon and a cheeky Lovers Prayer.
And I’ll sing the hyms what I etched in my very soul for sweet Kirsten.
And I will thank the lord. Cheers, The Lord.
Sing along, friends. Sing along with Of Kirsten Dunst and The Ballad Of The Kirsten Dunst Tennis Ball, and know that even if She cannot hear you, probably what She’s hearing is still something along the lines of angels spitting with jealousy on account of Her beauty.
Thank you Kirsten. Happy Kirstenmass. I can only wish that whatever might cause your eyes to do that thing when the sun’s shining off them and you kinda squint and then the dimples, I hope that falls into your beautiful lap.
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