I had an interesting experience the other day at a coffee bar. I was sitting at the back drinking my coffee when I saw this... thing, yes, thing, walk across the store front. Saw it for maybe 10 seconds, but in those ten seconds I knew I had witnessed a thoroughly useless human being, and one who was deserving of the highest level of unfounded scorn.
Picture this, if you will: His hair, ever-so delicately spiked, sat underneath a baseball hat (Academic, I believe) tilted a perfect 45 degrees off-centre. His shirt, pink, had its collar upturned; full-on "I'm huntin' fo' pussy, yo'." His jeans, pre-ripped, of course, hung just low enough to allow us the sight of the top of his boxers. NOTHING says "double digit IQ" like forgetting a belt.
What killed me, though, was his expression. Total "I know I look exactly how chicks want me to look;" it made me nauseous. And he didn't walk, he SWAGGERED. Only one person on earth was cool enough to swagger, and he's dead. Fuck you, Mr. Pink Shirt, you're not John Wayne.
Now, I don't consider myself particularly judgmental, and anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm all for letting someone dress and look however they wish. Appearances are skin-deep, after all, and comfort is king.
But this guy, no. No fucking way. He was a product. He is why cheap psychological tricks work when marketing shitty wares. Good-looking, to be sure, but there was nothing genuine about him. He was a mannequin, and his tastes will change in another six months when the fashionistas reveal that grunge is back, or whateverthefuck.
So, yes, that's my experience, related with some measure of vitriol. Anyone else care to share one?
Picture this, if you will: His hair, ever-so delicately spiked, sat underneath a baseball hat (Academic, I believe) tilted a perfect 45 degrees off-centre. His shirt, pink, had its collar upturned; full-on "I'm huntin' fo' pussy, yo'." His jeans, pre-ripped, of course, hung just low enough to allow us the sight of the top of his boxers. NOTHING says "double digit IQ" like forgetting a belt.
What killed me, though, was his expression. Total "I know I look exactly how chicks want me to look;" it made me nauseous. And he didn't walk, he SWAGGERED. Only one person on earth was cool enough to swagger, and he's dead. Fuck you, Mr. Pink Shirt, you're not John Wayne.
Now, I don't consider myself particularly judgmental, and anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm all for letting someone dress and look however they wish. Appearances are skin-deep, after all, and comfort is king.
But this guy, no. No fucking way. He was a product. He is why cheap psychological tricks work when marketing shitty wares. Good-looking, to be sure, but there was nothing genuine about him. He was a mannequin, and his tastes will change in another six months when the fashionistas reveal that grunge is back, or whateverthefuck.
So, yes, that's my experience, related with some measure of vitriol. Anyone else care to share one?
