This much I know

I am no Mr. Blackwell
::: but hey, technically neither is he, since he’s dead ‘n all … :::

I am no Joan Rivers
::: thank GAWD!!! :::

I am no Heidi Klum
::: but I pretend to be every Thursday night at Sammi … err, uhh, nevermind … :::

I am no high and mighty fashion critic.
I’m a fashion ICON!

As in ‘Icon see that shit and that shit ain’t right!’

And this shit ain’t right! —–>

It’s wrongness exists on several levels, but let’s not go into the granular details lest The Situation wannabe at my local LA Fitness who tormented MY EYES this very afternoon feel compelled to divert his rufie and hair gel savings and put it toward the kind of marrow-level in-depth psychoanalysis his entire being is so desperately crying out for.

No.
Let’s not do that.
We simply don’t have that kind of time.

But address the all-out fuckery that IS those shorts – WE MUST!

Because they aren’t shorts.
Or Pants.
Or Shants.
Or Ports.

Those, my friends, are culottes, okay?

Fucking culottes.

As in women’s fashion trousers circa 1978!!!

As in kinda ok these days for (women who do) yoga but not much else.

So stop it, douchebag.
Because it’s annoying to watch you try to be all testeroney as you priss and strut and flex and grunt while wearing those ridiculous things.
Because it doesn’t work.
Because it doesn’t make you look muscular, or masculine or, well, much of anything remotely, uhh, male.

It makes you look like my Aunt Carol.

‘Nuff said.

There’s a Sports Authority at Southern and 441.
Visit the men’s clothing section pronto because, DAYUM!