“I long for the day when I can say that even after it’s been washed it still smells like dog shit.” But for now, local crust-punk Willian Dillport, a.k.a. TobaccO K. Cupid, a.k.a. Davey Westbrook, dons his deep black, gently-used and spotless Jim Beam shirt recently purchased at the Salvation Army on Warren Ave, which “…doesn’t even smell like pee! Everything at that Salvation Army smells like pee.” When pressed further, he admits, “It’s stupid, I know. I mean, it just doesn’t go with the rest of my outfit yet. I would just rip it myself, but then I’d feel like a real poseur.” He sighs with a hint of defeat, resting his chin in his hand and his elbow on a 4-foot tall box of granny panties being used as a dining table.
“Oh yeah, Davey is kind of a poseur,” his girlfriend Emiloëy told us in confidence. “I mean, he buys shirts at the Salvation Army. Last week I ate a dumpstered placenta.” His best friend Greggo agreed: “Yeah, I know he thinks his pristine little Jim Beam shirt looks badass. He looks more like a dad who bought the shirt for a Judas Priest show.” Both interviewees were wearing high-waisted cotton panties as neckerchiefs.
Davey has been reportedly spending the last few days since having purchased the shirt running drunk through the forests of Portland at midnight in the hopes of artificially accelerating the natural process of wear. “The branches ripped up the shirt a little, but you can tell the logo isn’t faded at all.” he grouches to himself. “Should I wear a diaper made of sandpaper and hump the logo at night?” **Editor’s Note: do not attempt this at home; WTFPTLD waives all liability for injury.**
While Davey sat and schemed methods for ripping the shirt in such a way so as to still fit on his body in all the right places, WTF offered some weed and freshly dumpstered avocados to some members of his house, which worked some truth out of them like a serum. “I don’t get why he’s bein’ so weird about it.” said an anonymous acquaintance, admitting, “We all rip our shirts by hand. I mean, do you think the sleeves got into a wide tank-top shape by accident?”
After the conversation, we headed outside to encounter Davey playing with pigeons “for their mites” and laying down in the backyard turtle playpen. He was clad only in his Jim Beam shirt and a clean pair of high-waisted panties, in the hopes that the seven reptiles in residence would crawl on his torso and relieve themselves on his shirt, or maybe tear it with their claws. But the turtles were all busy chewing on a half-dead DMT plant four feet away. **Editor’s note: the ASPCA has been contacted.**
After chasing rabid dogs in the Fore River Sanctuary last Tuesday night looking for a fight, Davey seems to have finally emerged victorious, with a shirt stained in dirt and blood, and fetid with the drool that gushed from the German Shepherd that attacked Davey as he was rolling smokes in a canal.
“One becomes philosophical after achieving one’s goals,” Davey mused on the gurney. “We create our own authenticity by our actions, not simply by what we wear. I may be a poseur, but I am a damned good one. Take me away boys!”, he commands to the EMTs, one of whom is a woman. “I’m on my parents’ insurance!”