As you all know, in my last few columns and blog posts, all I could talk about was my big move to New York. How I was so excited and couldn't wait to continue the Hautey Toddy blog from the big apple.
Well, things have changed.
I will still write the blog but I have delayed my big move to NYC by about 6 months. I got a paid internship in Birmingham, so I will be here until December, then moving to NYC in January. The internship will be a great opportunity to write for a huge magazine, get paid and save up a lot of money to help me pay for the big move (from here on out, TBM – just like LOL, SATC, SJP, etc.) Yep, I'm excited about the movie.
Anyway, I'm actually going to write about fashion here in a minute but I just wanted to update everyone on my life plans. Because I know you all care so much.
Turns out I could write this blog from anywhere in the world because people dress like fools everywhere. What I want to touch on today is class. Not the kind you go to, in which you are likely to open the newspaper and do the crossword puzzle instead of actually listening to the professor, but the class of Audrey Hepburn. The class of Robert Redford. Or any number of old/deceased actors. It's gotten to the point where I can deal with mom jeans, clogs and possibly even pleather vests, if the person wearing such apparel has even an ounce of class. Sad.
I went to a bar in Birmingham the other night and saw, as per usual, any number of fashion blunders. However, the lack of class is what I want to comment on today. I saw a man – a grown-ass man, mind you, probably in his late 20s to early 30s – wearing a screen-T with a picture of a dachshund on it that said, "My weiner doesn't bite."
Really? I mean, really? Honestly I'm not exactly sure how to formulate a response to such an article of clothing. Suffice it to say he was with another dude, with no females in the vicinity, quietly sipping on his beverage. A word to the wise: Any female who would even ponder speaking to such an individual is either 1) completely classless herself, or 2) completely drunko.
The incident reminded me of a shirt I saw during the Double Decker festival in April. A guy was wearing a T-shirt that read, "While you are reading this I'm staring at your boobs." Once again, really? The worst part was that he had what appeared to be a wife and a family with him. Someone married you?! Yes, the question-mark-exclamation-point combo was required. My consolation for being offended by your T-shirt is that I know if you can find someone to love you unconditionally, anyone can.
I'm beginning to think that if I were ruler of the Earth, I would immediately institute a burn ban on all screen Ts. And I like screen Ts! I like them if they have a clever message or are an expression of something witty or unique. But telling me you are looking at my boobs, or that your "weiner" doesn't bite (BTW, who calls it that, honestly?) – you're a damn fool.
Then again, maybe these kinds of shirts are like social Darwinism in action. If I see you wearing this, I will never speak to you. I will never look at you again. You may as well have vanished from the planet. Survival of the fittest! Screen-T that ish.
Until next time, majorly yours.
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