Icelandic Fury

This coming February will be the tenth anniversary of the time when Bjork beat the shit out of that reporter in Bangkok. The reporter was like: "Welcome to Bangkok!" and Bjork was like: "It's judgement day, BITCH!" Then she opened up a can of debut post homogenic selmasongs vespertine medulla whoopass on that smug douchebag who had been harassing her. Where'd she learn how to fight like that? I guess she learned to survive in the harsh street life of rural Reykjavik. I don't know. Hey I remember that some of the cage fighters hailed from Iceland. Maybe she learned from watching her fellow countrymen.

I love watching the cage fights and the ultimate fighting. Can you guess why? If you guessed "shortie shorts," then you're right! Sometimes I pretend that the men are fighting to win a night of passion with me. Oooh the thought of two muscular bad boys beating the tar out of each other for a chance to shag little ol' me just sends me into a tidy froth. I can just imagine it now... a huge arena with thousands of spectators (all men) and I come in wearing some kind of chain mail and bleach blond hair. Then I make the announcement: "Two men enter, one man leaves." The crowd of men start to cheer and beat their hard muscular chests. Then I say, "THUNDERDOME!" Ha ha ha. Ah it's good to have such a vivid and ribald imagination.