So I went to Busch Gardens Saturday and did a little people-watching amongst The General American Public. I didn't see too many naked muffin tops, but we remain stuck in a period of fashion history extremely hostile to all women whose bodies haven't been sculpted by playing both soccer and lacrosse since age four.
You know the teenager/young adult woman whose body is transitioning from that prepubescent Teletubby shape to the apple shape they've inherited from their mother? They look like eggs with arms and legs attached? Invariably these were the women wearing the shortest shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top so tight that, to quote Anne Lamotte, it'd take the jaws of life to get her out of it.
OK, I understand. They want to tan, and they don't care about skin cancer. They're 19. I get that. And I get the meat market aspect of a theme park. But Dear, let me tell you something: his imagination can run wilder than your reality. So leave something to his imagination, OK?
No. Don't let me tell you. I don't want to have this conversation with you. But I do want somebody to have this conversation with you. A classy, female mentor. An older sister? A cousin? A co-worker? A teacher?
A mother? Nope, cause Mom was at Busch Gardens wearing the same thing! Only with more stretch marks and jiggle.
As for the guys... well, I didn't see any hipsters. Nor did I see any preps; they were all at Colonial Downs, I assume. But I did see a whole lot of this ugly, ugly guy look that I don't know the name for, but I recognize it as an almost pure type of... something. It's like Jersey Shore without the muscles, like Kid Rock on meth, something along these lines:
Head shaved with a two guard. Scrawny goatee somewhere between "I haven't shaved this week," and, "My kingdom for more testosterone!" Zits. Buck teeth. Sad or vacant eyes. I'll say vacant. Sad suggests an emotional complexity that may not be there. Top it off with the humongous saggin' jeans, the wife-beater, and letters in the newspaper masthead script spelling out the girlfriend's name on the upper arm.
Friendly advice, gentlemen. Unless your girlfriend's name is Jennifer, don't get her name tattooed on you. Jennifers are a dime a dozen. Laquandas are not a dime a dozen. Get Laquanda tattooed on you, and Laquanda better be special. She better be for life. Cause that tattoos are for life.
This guy--I just wanna smack him between the shoulder blades and say, "Stand up straight, son! Smile! You're at Busch Gardens, dammit! Look like you're having some fun!"
OK, gonna quit blogging. If my wife reads any more stuff like this, she's gonna get me some Sans-a-Belt slacks and Hush Puppies for Father's Day.
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