“What the fuck is this shit?” I asked my wife pointing at
HER daughter.
Pink t-shirt, pink short shorts and pink and white socks
pulled high; this was the object of my scorn. Add pink sneakers and a vapid
expression that can only be pulled off by a seven year old completed the
ensemble.
Now I’ve never been accused of setting trends. Or following
them. Or understanding the motivations behind, well, any of them. In fact the
only reason my hair devolved from short back and sides was due to a
miscommunication between me and the barber. I didn’t want to correct him later
because he started calling me ‘bro’ and I thought I’d been adopted. Also he was
fucking big and scary.
In any case while I am not a paragon of fashion, I know what
was slouching before we was not fashion-able. Well I assumed so. To me kids are
grayish pixelated blurs that sometimes resolve into living forms when they
really try to get my attention. Unless there are five or more of them. I’m
pretty sure I can take on four seven year old’s but any more in a group is a
little dicey. Kids are cunning, shrewd and can sense fear - any more than four
of them would eat me alive.
So despite a fear of tattooed barbers and groups of children
in face paint chasing me as I scream to them that they need to hold the fucking
conch I feel I have something to offer in the field of child fashion.
This isn’t fashion I concluded to myself and echoed to my
wife, “This isn’t fashion. Are you high? Your eyes seem a little red”. Recently,
for efficiency, I’ve been trying to include as many thoughts into a single
sentence as I could and I seriously thought I might need to hold an
intervention soon for her.
She ignored the comment and continued into A-Mart Allsports
with a slight (and worrying) wobble to her walk. “Nice ass, all the right
things are jiggling and also you really should get yourself clear-eye”. I
followed up, again being efficient with my thoughts.
Tense problem? Nah, I'm fine. I have scotch.
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