Some Girls Are Born Lucky

This morning, I was forced to take the TTC to work, as my sweet hybrid street bike is currently in the shop being tuned up. So, I took the scenic route from St. George station, along the outskirts of Yorkville and down through the eye-candy filled, bountiful U of T campus.

During the Yorkville leg of the fabulous summer walk, as I tapped my faggy urban man purse to the beat of Dashboard Confessional's "Easy As Lovers Go" I had one of those prophetic city moments I've written about in the past. But contrary to the ultra-serious, James Burke-style Connections insight I usually experience, this one was pure fucking hilarity.

A very full-figured, super buxomy, tourist kind of chick, waddled toward me from a hotel exit. She was a vision of Lynch-esque beauty: Jammed into a way-too-small pair of kakhi safari shorts, waist pack awkwardly stretched sideways, with way too much sunscreen on her nose, a crumpled up map clutched in one hand and a donut in the other. I know what you are thinking: Hmm, seen that before K-Dough. Ok, here comes the kicker: To complete the cinematic wardrobe, Ms. Denny's 1992 wore a hot pink, stretched to the max t-shirt with the words "Some Girls Are Born Lucky" emblazoned in silvery lettering across the front of her ginormous (now a real word) boobs.

Those words were instantly captured by my brain, and within a millisecond had effortlessly completed about 4 billion synaptic laps. "Some Girls Are Born Lucky". I deconstructed the phrase, then reconstructed it in zillions of possible combinations. "Some Girls Are Born Lucky".

And then it hit me. In a moment of cynical brilliance, inspired by a heart tainted by years of miserable commuter angst, I murmured to myself, with a petulant grimace: "Sure "Some Girls Are Born Lucky...still, too bad for that unlucky model you had to eat to get the T-shirt".

Ahhhhhh. I slay me.