Archive for Fashion

33. Forget to remove a price tag.

Jeez LouISE what a hot new polo shirt! Hip, charming pastels, sturdy collar for maximum poppage, and a bitchin’ crocodile logo. You hear that, restless hordes of untrendy swine? A friggin’ crocodile! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

You swagger down the street with a frightening confidence, high fiving strangers and unabashedly inviting them to feast their eyes upon your stylish threads. “Note the crocodile,” you blare. They stare at you sideways, with the slightest hint of a smirk upon their unwashed faces, but you pay it no mind. They’re probably just jealous. Not everyone can pull this off with such massive amounts of panache.

Following a lengthy string of vigorous thumbs-up, you decide it’s time for a rest from the celebrations. You draw your hands back to your sides, where you suddenly feel an odd fluttering. What could possibly be dangling from the sleeve? Surely in your outrageous excitement to don such a flattering garment you didn’t forget to take off the tag? Such a mistake can only be made by people who aren’t worthy of displaying deadly animals upon their breast!

But, no. There it is, waving in the breeze, mocking both you and your vampire-like collar. You quickly begin to paw at it, tearing and clawing, much to the amusement of the pedestrians around you. Once it becomes clear that the miniscule string of plastic is too strong for your puny little hands, you finally resort to biting, which isn’t easy since the human body isn’t designed to bend that way. You continue to gnaw through the cord like a feral hamster, contorted and bent over in several different yoga positions until finally, at long last, you break it free. By this point, a large crowd has gathered to gape and chuckle at your retarded antics. You burst past them, scowling, still secure in the knowledge that they just don’t understand real fashion.

You keep walking for a few blocks more, once again building up the confidence to show off and accost random passsers-by. But they’re still laughing at you! What in the gosh darn HECK? You wisely pause at a large display window to glance at your reflection, and it is there that your heart sinks. There it is. A large sticker, smack dab in the middle of your torso, screaming “MEDIUM! MEDIUM!” in a gigantic, grotesque, horrendously goofy font. Horrified, you tear it off, flinging it desperately at a nearby trash can, which it misses. You sink to the ground. Your day is ruined. Your shirt is ruined. Your life, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is completely ruined.

So if you want to suck at life, forget to remove a price tag. The documentation of the cost will be out there for all to see, but just remember: you can’t put a price on humiliation.


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29. Become trapped in an article of clothing.

There is simply no reason to believe that your favorite shirt no longer fits. Surely it couldn’t have shrunk over the course of one day. You certainly haven’t put on any weight. And, seeing as how you do not own or workaround any sort of size-altering mechanism รก la Wayne Szalinski’s in Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, you feel fairly safe from the molecule-altering rays that routinely plague the children of mad scientists.

So why are you now imprisoned inside a poly-cotton blend of pain and confusion?

It started out innocently enough. You came home from work, kicked off your shoes, and proceeded to strip naked. “Pants-optional Friday has begun!” you shout at your dog. You reach up to pull the shirt over your head as you’ve done countless times before, but something is different this time. Your game is off. You’re thrown. Your Finesse-O-Meter is registering somewhere around a paltry 4. (Best money you ever spent.)

Something isn’t stretching in the right way, or you’re feeling a little stiff, or maybe you head has swelled to several times its normal size ever since the Low Ceiling Incident this afternoon. Whatever the case, you just can’t seem to pull that shirt over your noggin. And so the dance commences.

You begin to contort into positions that would make a yoga master blush. You try hunching, arching, and stretching. You start to sway from side to side, perhaps hoping that the constant motion might cause the shirt to simply explode off of your body. Your breathing becomes heavy, labored. Your arms poke comically out of the various shirt orifices, dangling uselessly above your head and groping futilely through the air for some sort of otherwordly assistance from above. You resemble the victim of a terrible automobile accident, provided the automobile in question is a J. Crew truck full of polo shirts.

Now what? Do you rip the shirt? Kill the one article of clothing that hasn’t betrayed you by succumbing to fading, lint, pit stains, or inexplicable odors? Or do you call for help, thereby destroying whatever microscopic particle of self-worth your swaddled body still possesses? The situation is impossible, but one thing is clear: your dog thinks you’re nuts.

So if you want to suck at life, become trapped in an article of clothing. Enjoy the experience of becoming hopelessly tangled, suffocated, and powerless to defend yourself. Should any tickle-happy foes happen to witness your plight, just remember one thing: uncontrollable sobbing and/or urination is nothing to be ashamed of.

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26. Step in something unidentifiable.

You went shoe shopping today, and boy did it feel good. You pounded five cups of coffee, hit the town, and made the rounds – Payless, Famous Footwear, and DSW. Only the highest quality for your magnificent feet!

And now you’re dancing down the street like an escaped mental patient. You have new Skechers! You’re the coolest kid on the block! You wave at strangers, cuddle stray cats, point out your kicks to anyone who unwittingly shoots a cursory glance your way. “Look!” you scream, gesturing wildly and hugging them close. “Two different colored shoelaces! I’m so offbeat!”

As you continue to prance down the road, fully expecting a ticker-tape parade to spontaneously form behind you, you remain oblivious to the dangers lurking on the surface of the street. Gum, dog crap, roadkill, bubbling pits of hot tar, mysterious powders, used syringes, glowing plutonium…in retrospect, you probably should have chosen a better venue for your celebration than Heroin and Harmful Radioactive Substances Alley, but you were too busy partying to notice the barbed wire.

And now you’re paying the price. As you blow a kiss to a confused child, you suddenly become unable to continue walking. What’s holding you back? You gaze down at your foot, only to come face to face with your biggest fear: the ruination of your brand new sneakers. “Ewwwww!” you shriek, hopping around and uselessly waggling your hands. “What is it? What IS iiiiiiit??” But no one stops to help. Your adoring fans, who were so mildly interested in the crazy person only moments before, have gone right back to their daily lives with no thought to your horrid plight. How dare they.

Devastated, you examine the carnage more closely. Gunky, stretchy, smelly, and possibly still moving, you decide that the best course of action here is to sniff it. This is a bad decision. Five minutes of retching later, you grab a nearby pine cone and begin the excavation process. This only results in a messy pile of goop, the destruction of your once resplendent footwear, plenty of sobbing, and the annihilation of a young pine’s dream to one day become a tree. All because your precious feet needed to look awesome. Well done, jerk.

So if you want to suck at life, step in something unidentifiable. Your steps will never feel the same, and neither will the bruised, withered shell of your sole.


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3. Put a shirt on backwards.


A shirt isn’t complicated. Typically, there is a front. There is also a back, usually labeled with, unsurprisingly, a label. But this seemingly simple system is evidently convoluted enough to confuse even the most experienced shirt-wearers among us.

It’s time for the day to begin. You’re well-rested, freshly-showered, and naked. You feel pretty good about yourself. Until the time comes to get dressed. You yank your favorite shirt out of the closet, or off of the bed, for those OCD-sufferers among us who lay their clothes out the night before, or out of a year-old shopping bag, if you so happen to be homeless. Either way, the ability to clothe yourself is something you’re confident you can manage. You’re wrong.

Perhaps you’re not paying attention. Perhaps you become distracted by something – a crying child or a yippy dog or a small electrical fire. Perhaps you’ve entered into a brief moment of hysterical blindness. It doesn’t matter how it happens. What matters is that the moment you don the shirt, it feels wrong. It looks wrong. It smells wrong, though this has nothing to do with the orientation of the shirt. The point is, you’ve screwed up.

And now the tag is itching. It’s sticking up, bursting forth from your collarbone, where no earthly label has any right to be. The front of you has now become a billboard for stupidity, whereas the back of you is now displaying the witticisms that your shirt was originally meant to convey to people you meet head-on. However will they become aware of your whether or not you support the election of Pedro, or if you require more cowbell, or the existence of your undying love for lamp? This is a disaster.

So if you want to suck, put your shirt on backwards. True, the situation is easy to correct. But the emotional damage will remain. No longer can you strut about with the knowledge that you are fully qualified to dress yourself properly. It’s all downhill from here. Soon backward pants will follow, followed by underwear, socks, and somehow, shoes. In the end you’ll either resemble early 90’s rap sensation Kris Kross or your misguided fourth-grade Halloween costume. Enjoy the ride.

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