J Crew has Officially Jumped the Shark

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. 

Could Everyone Quit Fucking "Checking In" Already

The Internet giveth, and the Internet taketh away. We as humans cannot blame the Creator for the sharks or the influenza or the cockroaches or The View or any of the Kardashians. We can only praise him for the good things in the world. He is not to be held responsible for anything negative which exists in the universe he/she/it(we can't rule out that a creator who created RuPaul is a Boston-Batwanger itself) created. In much the same way we cannot hold Al Gore responsible for any negative spectres which have materialized in the Internet world he created. Al Gore is to be praised only for YouTube groin injury videos, pornography, anonymous character attacks and The Star Wars Kid. Al Gore is not responsible for Perez Hilton, Trojan Horse viruses, Graigslist rapes, and he sure as goddamned shit isn't responsible for this insidious "Checking In" suckfest on Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg is responsible for that atrocity, and may he be damned all the way to hell and back for it. No one cares what new fair-trade coffee shop/Hello Kitty vintage schwag store in Brooklyn you and your iPad-toting hipster douchebag friends just walked into. No one is impressed that you checked into the just opened Rockit Ranch bar du jour in Chicago, when in reality you are standing outside freezing your dick off with your brahs behind a velvet rope with visions of cherry bombs dancing in your head. Rather than sit here and bitch while offering no resolutions per usual, here are some ideas I have for check in destinations that someone might actually care about:
-John Doe checking in @ some pussy
-Mike Hunt checking in @ blacked out drunk
-Hung Low checking in @ my coke dealer's car
-Jane Hoe checking in @ office bathroom, 3rd stall, masturbating vigorously
-Seymour Butts checking in @ Ray's Big 'Ol Titties and Chicken Wing Shack
-Joe Blow checking in @ Lindsay Lohan's box
-Anthony Cooker checking in @ alley behind liquor store, stabbing vagrant to death to see if they bleed real blood
-Ima Tweeker checking in @ Red Roof Inn, shooting meth under toenails
-Michael Jackson checking in @ little boy's booty
-Paul Cook checking in @ strangling hooker
-Missy Urcock checking in @ methadone clinic
-Ron Awesomeheir checking in @ fucking your sister. no seriously, fucking your sister, hard
-Oprah Winfrey checking in @ in the closet
-Sandra Lovesdik checking in @ welfare office
These are some places we might actually want to show up and watch what you are doing. But so long as you are "checking in @ Golden Gate Bridge", go ahead and disable this feature in Facebook. Unless of course you are jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. Then by all means, let us know.

Would Someone Please get these Fucking Skinny Jeans Out of my Face Already?

This fashion trend has been mildly annoying for some time now, but I reached my breaking point this past Sunday at Whole Foods. I was minding my own business in the check-out line when I noticed two lines over a fat fuck hipster of EPIC proportions in a pair of skin tight black skinny jeans. His feet had to be purple given how tight these fucking things were at the ankle. I'm not even going to attempt to describe this asshole in full. If I did the World Wide Web might explode. At minimum I'd have a seizure. Suffice it to say just the sight of this fucktard was enough to ruin even the sunniest of days. Whoever came up with the idea to sell skinny jeans to fat people should be sacked immediately, with much aggression. The highest waist size these things should be sold in for men is 28. If you are bigger than that, fuck off and wear some goddamn pants. Ultimately no one could legally buy these abominations unless they were in a band or could prove Swedish citizenship, if I had my way.

This virus initially started, as do all malignant fashion diseases, in Europe and spread to New York, America's most densely populated assclown hipster den. It should have died there but the virus went airborne and escaped the island to take root in the mainland. As I have a natural immunity to this pandemic I ignored the problem as people were suffering all around me. After my harrowing experience with the Hippo Hipster at Whole Foods I can no longer sit idly by as grotesque people over the age of 25 with stick-out-guts butter their hips so they can stretch these prepubescent trousers over their ample flesh. I haven't the foggiest idea how they get into or out of these pants. My best guess is that they have to jump into them from several stories above to apply the pants, while calling for the Jaws of Life to remove them at night.

My "Surf's Up!" SoCal buddy has informed this contagion has infested the greater Los Angeles area as well. I thought everyone in L.A. wanted loose-fitting, comfortable clothing that didn't impede their ability to be far-out? I guess I was wrong. And when I say "L.A." I am obviously not including the greater Hollywood area, which doesn't count as part of Earth.

I think these jeans are very practical if you are between the ages of 16-24, in a modern punk band, less than 140lbs, are addicted to herion, and have tiny feet. Everyone not in that demographic, please do the right thing and quit wearing them.