Skinny Jeans & Sexy Tattoos! What does the future hold?

Just want to take a quick moment to discuss what the hell is going on with today’s fashion. I am by no means a fashion guru. As a matter of fact 90% of my clothing consists of paint stains and anal skid marks.

When I do go out I feel I dress appropriately.(Non/work related that is). I mostly wear a loose pair of jeans and a tee shirt or flannel. Very simple. Never seem to offend anyone. I keep the colors neutral. Just mind my own fashion business as I wander around Target in search of toothpaste like I’m Chris Columbus discovering America.

What In Gods name are these grown ass men doing wearing these pants that appear to be spray painted on their skinny little chicken wing legs? First off your knee cap is swollen. Second, how do you pull those bad boys down to drop a deuce and finally, where are your nuts during all of this?

I constantly wonder how these men remove these article of clothing at the end of the day. And where does one find such apparel? My guess is Kids Gap?

Then you come across the complete opposite fashionista. This fucking mess of life limps around aimlessly as he looks as if he just invaded Professor Klumps closet as he tops the scales at 113 lbs soaking wet. I am truly amazed on how these characters have mastered a way to keep their sagging ass pants perfectly secured to the bottom of the ass cheek. A belt is always part of the ensemble as I question my very existence on earth after trying to figure the purpose of this.

Ladies you are not off the hook. What is the deal with these coats and those hoods you all wear? You resemble a male lion in heat after a blowout of your fully mature mane at a Vidal Sassoon convention. And for the females who walk around with skin tight pants and a Slayer tee shirt as your exposed bright white spare tire of a belly gets “jiggy with it” in the tampon isle…yeah no. You should be the spokes woman for Mavis Tires. That is your destiny. Embrace it.

Last but not least. Tattoos. I love tattoos. I think they are cool, sexy, a part of our culture and many have so much personal meaning to the ones who wear them. I have a few myself. I’m just not sure some of us have thought this through in its entirety.

When you come across an older person today with tattoos they usually bear a faded anchor on the forearm or a naked grandmother with droopy tits on the bicep. Nothing crazy.

What’s gonna happen when Tito is 93 and his Iron Maiden tattooed balls turn 93? What is it going to look like when the beautiful woman turns 88 and her Mary Poppins tattooed boobies turn 88? How about the image of the man who turns 102 and the tattooed tear drop on his eye socket is now on his ankle? And finally the infamous tramp stamp.

First and foremost if you have one of these you better get your ass over to Staples ASAP and get some whiteout and cover that shit up.

Let’s say over the next 70 years you just couldn’t find the time to get to Staples and you now have to deal with a crinkly, rusted, hepatitis infused, hemoglobin clotted Justin Timberlake tattoo embedded in your rotten ass droopy coccyx bone area, good luck finding where your asshole begins and JT ends.

Damn those tats are sexy now!!!!

Is it “Shoprite” or “Shopwrong?”

ShopRite. I would like to take a moment to petition and reach out to my fellow food shoppers and change this misleading name to its appropriate title. “ShopWrong!”

This cluster fuck of a food store chain begins as soon as you pull into the parking lot. Sixty people fighting for the first available spot other than handicap. Every other parking spot seems to be open but humans refuse to walk an extra six feet.

Next you attempt to choose your shopping cart. It’s 106 degrees in August and hasn’t rained in three weeks yet every cart is filled with rain water and wet coupons with a saturated produce bag containing a crushed cherry tomato. Never fails to include a Prudential Rand real estate team trying to sell you a 900k house and you can’t afford a head of lettuce.

So you begin to push the cart and the left front wheel is always jammed. As you approach the front door there are three Mexican gentleman with rusted brass teeth, suits off the clearance rack of Peddlers Mart and rain boots handing you flyers in the hopes to gain your vote for the next US presidency.

The door opens and you are consumed by the stench of raddish and rotten broccoli . First stop is produce. You grab that plastic bag and unless your a NASA engineer, you cannot open it. Arrows on the bag clearly point in the proper direction but you assume ShopRite has it wrong and try the bottom for “shits and giggles.” After many attempts, the damn bag just won’t open so you walk around staring at bell peppers hoping for a miracle.

I always heard a supermarket is great place to meet someone. I love my wife and kids with all my heart. Never the less, there is this small part of me that cannot wait until the day a beautiful women arises from the eggplant booth and sweeps me off my feet.

You get to the meat section and there’s twelve people dressed like astronauts and Eskimos wandering around aimlessly stocking the shelves with outdated product.

You had it. You head to check out. You are on the express line (15 items it less.) You must become Dustin Hoffman in Rainman and count your items as the 103 year old women is waiting impatiently behind you.

Very stressful! “Shopwrong” is a more appropriate name. Don’t ya think? Continue reading “Is it “Shoprite” or “Shopwrong?””

To Shed A Tear “Our Emotional Cinema”

Most of us enjoy getting lost in the imaginary make believe world of movies and television. It’s a chance to escape from our everyday reality which can be overwhelming at times. It helps us forget for a minute that our mortgages are past due, our fussy children need to be fed, our insurance policies are in serious default, our Lu La Roe are 16 sizes to small and our pets need us to get home and walk them before they piss on our fluffy white Persian throw rugs or drop a ring worm infested deuce on our alligator skin recliners. We then have the audacity to come home and put the poor dogs snout in its own pee and shout “no bad dog” to teach them a lesson as we enjoyed coming attractions to the next Star Wars.

I feel this is an escape we all need from time to time. My issue I have is my wife and her escape. This women cries over Fraggle Rock re-runs.  She has a revolving door of TV shows she currently watches and no matter what, the end result always involves her shedding a tear like  Darva Conger at “Who wants to marry a millionaire”. I can’t afford the tissue bill and loss of mascara any longer.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a sucker for LMN, Lifetime and the legendary Hallmark Christmas movies where I start weeping like the newly adopted daughter of “Mommy Dearest.”

There needs to be a limit of our emotions that allows us to lose ourselves within this fantasy land. Last night my wife texted me politely as I was in the adjacent room watching Chips and asked for her “lifeline” of “humus & beanito chips”. I cooperated. She started to dip and chomp on her treats like Jenna Jaimeson at the Porn Awards. Upon my return to take her leftovers and clean her chin of humus drippings, she was sobbing as she watched an Aflac commercial so I realized I married an emotional women.

I found it ironic she never cried at our wedding, kids birth (well maybe she shed a morphine infused tear), our 10 year wedding anniversary, my kidney stone removal and the one time I thought she should weep just a bit, when I went down on my bruised kneecap and proposed. Instead of the traditional response of “yes I love you babe, how is your knee feeling and I am honored to be your wife” she whacked me in the head with a strawberry daiquiri and said “it’s about time”.

Emotions are a funny thing. With all the negativity and bullshit in the world today, FUCK IT!!!! Lose touch with reality for a moment. We all deserve it!

Not Political but Deeply Concerned!

I am the least political human being since Al Capone. Last time I casted a vote it involved my sixth grade class presidency. I have never voted and never will. I can name five  presidents. Bush, Bush 2, Clinton, Obama & Trump.

I never cared and I still don’t care. Unfortunately this years election has left me no choice but to pay attention and get a bit more involved. I didn’t know the meaning of “POTUS” until that handsome gay guy with nice gray hair on CNBC explained the definition. If I had to vote I would have checked “none of the above”.

Although I didn’t know the facts or details of what the candidates were truly about, I could only base my interpretation on what I have heard and learned through the news and social media which has the credibility of OJ Simpson on a Jerry Springer episode.

As the election race continued I found myself in favor of Mr Trump simply because I had a more complex vocabulary (And I have the vocabulary of Tarzan.) I was simply fascinated by the skin color of this individual. His “blow up doll” lip formation as he speaks also played a major role in my attraction to this candidate along with the deceased albino racoon hairdue he so elegantly wanders around with. Get a fucking haircut. I’ll pay. Come on dude. Your worth billions. Fix that shit.

He is the most unorthodox president to ever be elected. Maybe that’s a good thing. Who knows. Only time will tell.

All of these protests and media rants will accomplish nothing. I understand that may be hard to accept.

I giggle every time he refers to the word choices in the likes of amazing, huge, tremendous, believe me, bigly, etc. He has the political experience of a tadpole.

I am in no position to argue against or judge the people who oppose him and feel his presidency will be the “apocalypse” and the death of America.

What I do know is this man won our presidential election and is now our president. Like it or not.

The protests I have witnessed in recent days have been a disgrace. Protestors have put law enforcement, innocent civilians and themselves in great danger. The fact schools have offered “grief counseling” to young students as a result of this election in my opinion is repulsive. I blame this entirely on the parents and parents alone. All we are doing is creating a further divide within our nation.

I will never tell a parent how to raise their child. Thats your business. Please have enough sense to teach them respectfully.

When I hear your child say on national television he “set a limo on fire” you should rethink your parenting strategy.

The protests, riots, hate and disrespect for our new president will get you absolutely nowhere and most likely result in your arrest and embarrassment.

Let’s come together as a country and give this man a chance. I know it’s hard and again I don’t understand your dislike for him completely.

I do know what is taking place is only teaching our youth to hate, discriminate and divide during a time where our children are already confused as they chase Pokémon, dab, wear two different color sneakers on purpose, try to gather likes on Instagram like a homeless hooker on Dancing With The Stars, and wear skin tight farlow jeans like Boy George at confession.

What is going on within our nation is deeply concerning. I hope, in time, we become a strong, respected, peaceful force once again.

PS: If you are truly not happy and can’t deal with the current situation then move out of the country like many of you threatened to do. Trust me you won’t be missed. Please do not continue to put innocent people at risk of danger as a result of your hatred. Thank you kindly!

Walmart Fashion Statememts

 

Walmart. Considering this Mega Store should only be allowed to operate in Chernobyl between the hours of 3am – 5am, we must take a moment to respect the fashion statements of its clientele.

Grandmothers are known to prance the aisles wearing “whinnie the poo” diapers sporting four inch stiletto heels with a “bieber believer” wife beater topped off with a backwards “Public Enemy” hat.

The children can be found in the fire arms section latched on to their mothers breast dressed in batman under roos with construction boots and full sleeve arm tatoos.

The main attraction of the children’s attire is the skull cap embroidered “my mommies breasties are the besties”.

The men are pretty simple. Full camo suits with 2 1/2 teeth accompanied by full grown beards housing what appears to be a nest of pelicans. Camo headpiece naturally.

The women, oh boy. Even I am at a lost for words for this travesty but I must give it a whirl. It begins with what I like to refer to as a spare tire of tatoos surrounding the torso area with fish net stockings running up the arms. The shoe of choice appears to be fishing boots and the head gear usually resembles that of an astronaut helmet. Unfortunately there are no pants in this description.

That being said, I walked in wearing jeans, tee shirt and nikes and I was the outcast!!!!