Notes From Damn Near Canada
No. 51
17:50
06/04/10
Guys. Guys. I’m just going to be blunt: Your outfit is ridiculous.
Look. I live in Minnesota, where the truly nice weather shows up late and checks out early. In fact, I had to warm my car up at least one morning this week. And it’s goddamn JUNE. So I don’t think it’s really out of line for me to say that I understand the need to worship the sun better than most.
But I also understand that I don’t have to look like a jorts-wearing douchebucket to do it. Seriously. I get that right about now, that sun is enticing you to start showing off the goods. I get it. I do. After all, I have calves that BEG to be displayed. Seriously. You see these things and you want to lick mayonnaise off them. But do I rub them in YOUR faces? That’s a negative, Ghostrider. So here’s the thing: If I can button my shit up for these scant weeks of summer, even though I clearly need all the vitamin D I can suck up, I think the rest of you fellas can manage to not dress like an eight-year-old at a pajama party.
I mean, really. Does losing the bottom 18-inches of your pants REALLY cool you on some monumental level? Does exposing those pockmarked shins all day save you from that dreaded heat stroke you’ll surely snag while loping around the mall, ogling the goth girls slouching in and out of Hot Topic? Shorts should be worn in exactly two environments: the beach and the athletic arena. As such, there is ZERO need for fucking DRESS SHORTS. Hey, buttpipe. You want to be ‘dressy’? Extend those khaki legs all the way down to the ground. If I can see your gross goddamn spidery leg hair, you ain’t dressy. And tucking your shirt into the shorts? Ain’t helpin’ bub. Turns the pot into a cauldron, if you know what I mean. Eff-why-eye.
And sandals. Oh, I wasn’t aware that the tops of the feet were such hotspots for sweltering air-current activity. I mean, simply by exposing those hobbity bastards to room temps you lower the old body temp by 12 degrees, right? Whatever, asshole. I don’t want to sniff your fuzzy toe knuckles any more than I want to see the bootleg Calvin & Hobbes tattoo on your ankle. Sandals are to be worn in two venues only: the beach and the gay bath house. Because you don’t want to get ringworm while you're juggling some grizzly bear’s lap potatoes. What I don’t need is a waft from your hobbity hoofparts assaulting my face while I’m trying to enjoy my goddamn Sbarro. Cover them yellow nails, kid.
Boys, I’m certainly no fashion expert. My standard uniform is work boots, jeans and either a nice button-down or a t-shirt sporting a smarmy catchphrase. It’s simple and easy because I’m too lazy to put a whole helluva lot of thought into it and still want to hit the food court without looking like I just got done mowing the lawn. Sometimes I’m underdressed, sometimes I’m overdressed. And somehow I manage to look halfway respectable and make it all the way through summer without pulling a Korey Stringer. THIS CAN BE ACCOMPLISHED IN LONG PANTS. (And if you’re going to go through the effort of wearing a button-down shirt, for the love of Jeebus, wear long sleeves. Unless you’re actively trying to look like the Geek Squad.)
We all want to be comfortable. But can’t we do it without looking like roadies for a fucking Grateful Dead tribute band?
*Two notes, here. Around your own house? Shit be OFF. Anything goes. Comfort is king. Balls need to be easily accessible at all times. This is understood. And ladies? The only rule: show off them shoulder blades. Golly, I love me some shoulder blade.
