All right, damnit, I’ll admit it. In my opinion, I am judgmental to the point of possibly being mistaken for a bitchy queen. I know, hard to believe, right? Many of my “opinions” are not based on Webster’s definition of “careful thought.” Who has time for that? I need about 7-1/2 seconds to peruse someone or something and land my verdict on the face, body, wardrobe, and whether they are wearing a permanent resting bitch face or just sucking on a lemon wedge. I’m not proud of it, but at this stage in my long-lived life’s experience, what can I do?
One definition of judgment would have me “discerning” based on fact and comparison. Now, that is exactly what I do. Here are the facts. Exhibit A is a prissy wannabe, compared to B, who is not. I’ve had enough encounters, in and out of the sack, with vicious, backbiting, two-faced, whoring queens to know. But, who’s judging? In all fairness, my ability to quickly assess a person, place, or thing is my gift.
So, let’s begin with my latest pull-my-hair-out opinion of one of the latest fashion trends. (My apologies to those who know me well. They’ve heard this rant a dozen times. This week.) The so-called fashion designer who decided that no socks and clam digger length pants are fashion should be whipped with a weighted tape measure or forced to binge-watch Keeping up with the Kardashians.
Don’t grow men (especially the metrosexuals) realize how ridiculous they look in a fastidiously put-together ensemble only to have the focus be on six inches of godless, sockless ankles?! “All of your focus on my feet, please.” Especially offensive are the milk-skinned offenders whose ankles glow like radioactive waste.
My theory is this: Envision a pissy fashion show with models all set to parade the runway like show poodles. The designer barks at his assistant as to why they are not wearing the socks he has carefully picked to accompany each flawless ensemble. The petrified flunky admits that he has forgotten them. A bitch slap later the designer realizes there is no alternative. “Go! he screeches. “Go!” Thus, the fashion crime of the decade was launched, joining the return of the fanny pack and jeans laden with saucer-sized holes. Not every trend is a winner, guys.
Currently, the guiltiest of the ankle-bearing criminals is pseudocelebrity Ryan Seacrest whose weekday talk show hosting has me throwing my shoes at the tube, and not in a Jennifer Hudson, good way. His skin tone sans socks is so close to the pristine white tennis shoes he wears with everything, dressy or casual, makes it impossible to discern between the two shades of “nay.” Sunglasses, please.
Though I try to separate my humble opinions from judgmental verdicts that would lock bare-ankled felons in a sock factory, I realize that like mullets and bellbottoms, this too shall pass. Not soon enough for me. No socks with a beautiful suit are like cake without ice cream, or sex with no dirty talk. Why? Why?
As I’m anguishing over no socks, there is a fashion faux pas in hot pursuit of the newest trend trophy: short shorts for men. Unless your legs are insured for a million dollars or you’ve time-traveled from the ’80s, I beseech you. Do not follow the lemmings off the fashion cliff. You look ridiculous.
But, that’s just my opinion.