Yeah, me again. I got into the Gizmodo office using a trebuchet Hannibal and I constructed from a drainpipe, a coupla ball bearings, some old tyre rubber that I ripped with my bare hands and a buckle-less belt. Now this ain't no infomercial brought to you on the
QVCQVT shopping channel, but I am Mr T and I approve this message. When I first heard about the Buckle-less belt, I thought, "What the hell is a buckle-less belt? Is it like a zipless fuck?
(Sorry Momma, I know you don't like me to cuss, but it's it's a quote from a famous book by a learned author, you know?) And yeah, I guess you're surprised that I read Erica Jong. Hell, I'm surprised I read Erica Jong. I like her. If you don't know her, she wrote a book way back in the Seventies, when I was still in 'Nam—or was I in military prison, framed for a crime I did not commit?—memory's a bit woozy these days. Anyway, this book, it's called Fear of Flying, so of course I picked it up. Well, Face gave it to me, actually, said some ladyfriend of his had recommended it. So, I starts reading it, thinking it'll cure all my travel woes. Nope. No, it had absolutely bugger fuck nuthin', sorry Mamma, to do with gettin' on a plane. Well, it sort of is, but it mostly isn't.
But T's getting off the subject here. Don't push him off the buckle-less belt. It's made by Sruli Recht, it comes in three sizes—three, four and five cm—and four colors, three of which I approve (flesh, bone, rust) one of which I don't (ash, don't smoke, kids. And respect your Momma). It's cut using a jet of water and made in Iceland. Oh, and before I go, get one thing straight, fool, I don't like Ice. I don't like Ice-T. And so it goes without saying I probably don't like people from Iceland. [Cool Hunting]