I looked and I looked, but they do not have the photo I need from the just-released December catalog online. The theme of this current catalog I received in the mail on Monday is "The Italian Alps". Sure, why the fuck not. One of the worst economies in modern history, a country on the precipice of being Sandusky'ed into oblivion, sure, fuck it, let's head to the Italian Alps for Christmas. I mean, who isn't going? Just grab your incredibly handsome family, a dozen or so of your yuppie/hipster friends, and head off to the fuckin' Alps man. No big deal. And not a lodge or a town or any of that bullshit, but rather hang out on top of the peaks. Right up there above the tree line, in the snow and shit. And don't be the asshole that shows up in mountaineering gear either. If you walk in wearing crampons and a snow suit, we're going to laugh you off the fucking mountain. You don't need any of that shit. What you do need are some tweeds, some leather, a barn coat, high-end sunglasses, and by all means, bring your sexy. Do not, and I mean DO FUCKING NOT zip your coat up all the way, if at all. It is only -17F up here. Exposed skin and unzipped coats are the fashion du jour these days on top of the Alps. No wind either. We're in the fuckin' stratosphere, but luckily no breeze today. Perfect conditions for carrying Christmassy shit to and fro with no discernible destination in sight. Just grab this here laurel wreath I found lying around and carry it to this other peak over yonder. No big deal. Glad I wore my Sperry Topsiders.
The picture in question features a tweed "Ludlow Suit". The smarmy prick in question is, like everyone else, at the pinnacle of the Alps, as indicated by the treeless vista behind him featuring stone-cold granite peaks sticking out through the ice and snow (I don't know if the Alps are granite. If not, any geology major readers please inform me.). Presumably at Christmas the pinnacle of the Alps are a bit chilly. But our heroine seems impervious to these conditions. He is gallivanting about with a perfectly coiffed hairdid, Wayfarer sunglasses, an unbuttoned tweed suit, a Fair Isle sweater over a button up, very smart silver buckle belt, and last but not least, some suede boots. And of course he is toting some Christmas shit, in this case a a rather lovely Christmas tree that he has sawed perfectly off at the trunk with the saw that he doesn't possess. I guess I would give J Crew a pass, albeit a very temporary hall pass, and only for enough time to go #1, not #2 or #3, if they were in some village near the base of the Italian Alps. But no, they make sure it looks like they are at the tip-tippity-fucking-top of one of the world's most severe mountain ranges. So dickbag:
Glad the hair stayed nice and lightly mussed. That can only help when you raise a sifter of hot Sambuca and toast the comely young lass you plan to bed, later that night by the roaring fire.
Good choice on the Wayfarers. Some may think that mountain summits in the dead of winter are best served by snow goggles to protect from wind, and side protection given the sun glare is 360 degrees on snowpack. Those people are cunts. You and I--Sir--know that you want high and proud cat's eye frame perched precariously on the bridge of your nose, with the sides of your eyes free and easy-sleazy to gander at hoes as you waltz around the Alps. You need not a strap to fix the spectacles to your head in high mountain winds. Your assured, cock-of-the-walk strut is all you need to keep glasses on heads.
When you are high on the peak, looking down on the world and admiring all you've conquered, you want to look merry. And what looks merrier than a charcoal gray suit left wide open to the elements, with a simply ravishing Fair Isle pattern sweater peeking cheekily out from beneath, just openly challenging a blizzard to come along and try to ruin its good time. "Ga' head cunt, I dares 'ya to try and blow Tweedy Burd offa the maaanin'!"
What stands up to--and fist fights if necessary--deep powder, slush and ice? Suede. Though not quite as well as canvas, it is very close. Get yourself some fresh, non-waterproof suede boots, and your feet will be as warm and dry as a cloudless day in an August hay field.
And where, might you ask, is he dragging that beautiful Christmas tree to? Fuck you, that's where. It doesn't matter where the tree came from. It matters less that he is clearly well above the tree line and there is no vegetation existing in any form. Completely irrelevant that there are no tree-felling tools to be found. What does matter, what is relevant here, is that a handsome man, dressed devastatingly smart from head to toe, is walking about above the clouds carrying a tree. Where he is taking it is for the philosophers to debate. Once again J Crew, you've outdone yourself. You've taken a dump on Christmas. Would it kill you to portray, for once, the REAL fucking Christmas. Show a whiskey-soaked Kentucky Christmas, on the east side, deep in them mountains. Not the Alps, but the Apps, son. Show uncle Lester in his new khakis, down in the basement with the Youngins, playin' a little game 'o "Let Uncle Lester Whistle in Yer Holler". Let the people see grandma, at a sprightly 41 years old, Merit dangling precariously from her lower lip, as she screams at her common law son-in-law for not "fuckin' me right" while her daughter Bessie-Sue was pregnant with their most recent, 6th child. In her merino wool v-neck and blackwatch skirt. We want to see Uncle Bear out in the shed, showin' the men-folk his newly stolen copper still. Corn mash trickling down his partially-paralyzed face onto his plaid flannel shirt and wiped clean with his shearling-lined leather gloves. Quit Nancy-pantsing around with the Eurotrash in the Alps and bring us something real, J Crew.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
And what, you might ask, would be an "appropriate response" for JoePa? Here is the answer: Any fucking thing JoePa damn well pleased, as long as it resulted in NO MORE BOYS GETTING RAPED. He could have literally done ANYTHING in that town, and no one would say bully about it. When your graduate assistant tells you Sandusky is giving little 'uns the 'ol in-out in facilities you built with your national championships, you walk into a diner where Sandusky is enjoying his coffee, stroll over to his table, pull out a gun, and shoot him right in the goddamned face. As the crowd looks at you in shocked silence, say "Eight year olds Dude" and walk right out. Police would probably give you a medal. "Thanks for saving the taxpayers the burden of prosecuting that piece of shit, Joe!" they'd say. "Beat Michigan next week Joe" the crowd roars as you receive yet another key to the city.
I really hope this finally puts into perspective Ohio State players trading their signature for skin art. I truly hope it does. I'm no psychologist, but I think most alumni polled would prefer that football players sign a poster and receive ink of Biggie and Tupac in Heaven on their back over disadvantaged young boys getting ass-slammed at summer camp in their football locker room, any day of the week and twice on Sunday. I may be wrong on this, but I'd be willing to wager a hefty sum to back my answer on this one.
I do not apologize for the length of this tome. I do not. We all lost this week. Every last one of us. If I cannot expect--no, actually if I cannot fully count on with no reservations--JoeFuckingPaterno going absolutely batshit Michael Douglas in "Falling Down" + Sly Stallone in First Blood x The Aliens in "Aliens", all cubed, berzerker and having to be pulled off Sandusky's jugular by police after he hears about kids getting raped in his locker rooms, then tell me this: What the fuck can I count on?
End of rant. Really I'd like to say more, but I've got shit to do. However, if someone tells me they saw someone bangin' kids in the shower at my house, I will gladly stop what I'm doing and handle it like a grown ass man.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
You clutch that hand rail with all your strength, Pork Arm. You glare at us all. Your tormentors, your oppressors. Those who entered the bus before you, taking those empty seats. You got on the bus too late for open seats, Pork Arm. So you stand, and you glare. You are mad that we sit, that we comfortably read, that we rest our weary feet at the end of a long day toiling for the man. But most of all, you are mad that our arms are not ham. Being the sassy little swine-arm that you are, you've chosen to celebrate this warmer-than-usual autumn day with sleevelessness. You let the world bask in the briny, basting glow of your ample tricep fat. As the bus heaves to and fro, so to does your meat wing, but in opposite directions. Each person who, through no choice of their own, accidentally makes contact with you as they pass, unable to avoid such an eventuality due to the width of bus aisles and your ample girth, is met with a scowl, a grunt, a pork-push-back. But Pork Arm, stop. We, your fellow bus patrons, do not hog(double entendre anyone?)-tie you to your sofa day in, day out, feeding you salt chips and ice cream against your will. No one wants to touch you, trust me. So calm the fuck down and take your fat aggression out on something which isn't innocent, like Domino's or mayonaisse. Cheer up Pork Arm, brighter days are ahead. Not for you so much, but for others.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
As an aside, one small upside to last night was that mom and dad let me stay up and watch the original Halloween with them. Michael Myers is straight up LEGIT. When I finally do get my Werewolf costume, that is how the Scoutmeister is going to go about his business, all methodical and shit with no emotion or barking.