How do you curl your hair? It's absolutely gorge 💗
thank you so much! ❤️ recently i’ve been curling it by doing the top half in pin curls and the bottom in foam rollers and leaving it overnight
when i’m in a pinch i use my curling iron and wrap my hair flat around the barrel to make ringlets then brush those out
Mr. Lahey: He’s takin’ the shit tornado right back to Oz. Randy: Well that would make Sam, Dorothy. Right Mr. Lahey? Mr. Lahey: Right, Randy.
Ricky, you just opened up Pandora’s shit-box
Do you know what a shit-barometer is Bubbles? It measures the shit-pressure in the air, listen Bubs you hear that? The sounds of the whispering winds of shit
You feel that? The way the shit just sticks to the air? There’s a shit-blizzard comin, I always know
We’re about to sail into a shit typhoon Randy, so we’d better haul in the jib before it gets covered with shit
You idiots have loaded up a hair-triggered double-barreled shit machine gun, and the barrel’s pointed right at your own heads!
Shit moths Randy. They started as shit larvae and then the grew into shitapillars. A whole pandemic of shitapillars
Shit tectonics - do you know what happens what two shit plates collide? Shitquake
They’re shit flowers Randy, from here they look like regular flowers but when you get down and poke your nose in them you realise they’re shit flowers, and theres a whole fucking bouquet of them!
When the shitballs start flying, you’ve got to get a shitbat Randy!
We’re in the eye of a shiticane here Julian, and Ricky’s a low shit system!
Do you know what a shit-rope is Julian? It’s a rope covered with shit that criminals try to hang on to
Randy: Cops and dope don’t mix, do they Mr. Lahey? Mr. Lahey: Like shit and strawberry shortcake, Randy.
Mr. Lahey: What are those fuckers up to? Randy: Probably goin for some shit-dogs and fries Mr Lahey Mr. Lahey: Randy, I thought we agreed - no more shit talk til we’re back in power
Ricky: Why bother with a couple of shit sticks when you can have the whole shit trawler? Mr. Lahey: Nice shit analogy Rick
Randy, the shit-pool is getting full. We better strain it, before it overflows and causes a shit-slide that can cover this entire community. I will not have a Pompeiian catastrophe happen in Sunnyvale!
You know, Ricky grew up as a little shit-spark from the old shit-flint. And then he turned into a shit-bonfire and then driven by the winds of his monumental ignorance, he turned into a raging shit-firestorm. If I get to be married to Barb i’ll have total control of Sunnyvale, and then I can unleash a shitnami tidal wave that’ll engulf Ricky and extinguish his shit-flames forever. And with any luck, he’ll drown in the undershit of that wave. Shit-waves.
Imagine helping Nori with his hair after the barrel ride
“Don’t even say anything” Poor Nori. Not only was he rooming with the only female - that the stupid master of Laketown didn’t realize was a woman - his hair was, well, just about everywhere. Showing up with the bundle of clothes the maids had passed to me, I had wandered off to find the poor dwarf and the room we were to share. The unfortunate noises had led me straight to where I need to heading.
On this day, forty-nine years ago, four long-haired boys came barreling into living rooms across America. They gave millions of young people something to smile about, something to laugh at and to carry them away from their troubles, even for just half an hour each Monday evening.
No one could have known that this television show’s reach would extend far beyond its two short broadcast years. No one could have known that the Monkees’ story—a band that wasn’t a band, that ended up becoming a band—would be one told again and again, to the newer generations of fans that were to become legion as the decades passed.
To Bob Rafelson and Bert Schneider: Thank you for being the authors of the madness. For creating something that no one else would’ve dared to at the time. For pushing the envelope, inserting love and peace into the nation’s consciousness—all the while being subversive and expanding people’s minds without even knowing it. We all owe you a tremendous debt of gratitude…even if you guys did kinda end up being dicks towards the Monkees in the end.
To Don Kirshner, Tommy Boyce, and Bobby Hart: The Man with the Golden Ear, and the men who are responsible for us getting the funniest looks from everyone we meet. Thank you all for creating the soundtrack that brought the show alive. For your musical insights and knowledge, for being such hard-working individuals who translated songs into unparalleled success. We owe you all a tremendous debt of gratitude, too…even if you also ended up being a dick towards the Monkees in the end, Donnie K.
Last (but certainly not least), to The Monkees: Oh, boy. Where do we even begin? Thank you. Thank you not only for changing so many people’s lives, but also for saving them. Thank you for being the four friends so many of us needed when we didn’t have any, and the four friends we wanted when we did. Thank you for the joy, the comfort, the company, the lessons, and the love that you gave us. Thank you for being four pieces of the most delicious eye candy anyone has ever seen. Thank you for standing up, for fighting, for being true to yourselves even when everyone thought you weren’t a “real” band. Thank you for opening the world up and showing us what it could be, if only young people would work together for a common goal. Thank you for forging a connection that could outlast anything, even death.
Thank you for making daydream believers out of all of us.