May 31, 2009

Dress to Impress

Let's be honest... You are not an MMA fighter, you do not listen to Pantera, you do not ride a motorcycle, nor have you ever enlisted in the SS. Why, then, do you insist on dressing in that manner?

Those overpriced articles of clothing do not instantaneously and continuously announce to others nearby that one's testosterone levels have reached near-Himalayan peaks. Yes, the rest of society was equally as shocked the first time they heard that fact back in 2003. One would think that a shirt would convey as much attitude as the "hardcore" imagery of skulls, demons, and tigers wish to portray but actually it works against itself as those subject to being within its proximity are fully aware that the cloth is not hiding the ink of many tattoos nor the muscle capable of transforming bone to dust.

Sirs, your clothes betray you. Any woman worth her salt sees straight through the facade and acknowledges you for who you really are: a weekend warrior who plays by his own rules at the stroke of five o'clock because nothing can contain him, his intravenously-induced energy drinks, and the urge to drunkenly exclaim "TAPOUT!" after a third Dos Equis. Within those set of rules that you hold so dearly, the first of which is that there are no rules, there cannot afford to be a gap in masculinity at any level regardless of how hard you cried in the darkness of your condo living room at the conclusion of Lifetime's Movie-of-the-Week that you "accidentally" TiVo'd. Sadly, those rhinestones, too, which are cleverly adorned to sparkle attraction your way do not appeal to a woman's fascination with shiny objects, rather, the glittering rocks evoke a response similar to that of seeing fresh sawdust piled up in a high school hallway after a lunchtime milk chugging contest.

Your male friends, or "bros," who claim to have your back are often of little assistance in this type of crisis; they went with you to the opening of the latest Michael Bay feature, helped you sneak back into Papas and Beer last spring break after getting thrown out based on a 20 year-old coed's accusation of being approached by a "creepy old guy," and even held your hand when you sat in the chair at Supercuts to get the mohawk you've always wanted to show your manager at Best Buy that simply because you're an assistant manager does not put you under his control. Therefore, your pals either are joining you as brothers of the tasteless cloth or long ago accepted you as the "mainstream but edgy" garden-variety tool into which you blossomed, neither of which aid you against your self-inflicted onslaught.

While the term "douchebag" may be heard when you enter a room so much so that you habitually glance down at your chest to check for a name tag, do not fret as salvation can be both quick and painless. All it requires is the purchasing and wearing of plain t-shirts which come conveniently in packs of three for under $10. Fucking buy some already, you look retarded.

When in Rome

Let's be honest... It should be safe to assume that most people don't go to their barber and ask for a hand grenade and a blowjob, or to their local carwash and solicit a printout of sexual predators living in their area, or to their cobbler and request a discourse on applied astrophysics. Why is it, then, that some gentlemen feel the desire to adhere to their ritualistic ordering of cocktails, libations so dainty they would make a Sunday afternoon tea party crumpet blush, regardless of a bar's specialty or the presence of conscious females of proficient hearing and sight?

Overheard at a busy neighborhood watering hole known for its extensive beer and whisky bill of fare:
Bartendress: What'll it be?
Young Sir #1: Hi, can I get a Stella, a glass of water, no ice, and an Electric Lemonade.
Bartendress: Sorry, we don't make club cocktails.
Young Sir #1: What?
Bartendress: We don't make drinks that you'd order at a club. This isn't a club.
Young Sir #1: Well, what do you make?
Bartendress: We mix liquor plus water, soda, or juice.
Young Sir #1: (Relaying unnerving information to Young Sir #2 and others in his party) Ok, I guess he'll have a gin and tonic?
Bartendress: Any special kind of gin?
Young Sir #1: Well.

Poor Young Sir #2 had to settle for the lingering taste of juniper berries and quinine, a drink of satisfactory taste to the masses who wished to prevent malaria in the 18th century, instead of the soothing synthetic blue from the island he swore rhymed with "Morocco." A different night, perhaps. Young Sir #1 should be nominated for a Bronze Star for his effort if it weren't for his guilt by association for allowing his companion to order well anything.

The problem, friends, was not in the tropical drink itself but in the context; an Electric Lemonade could be the perfect accoutrement on a muggy day in the West Indies or a cool night at a local Tiki-themed establishment. No, the hiccup was in that the cocktail was his go-to choice in this scenario, behavior I would liken to the case of squashing a cockroach by instinctively reaching for a loaf of Wonder Bread.

Next time, play it safe and simply order a beer or a glass of something that contains a liquid or two of which at least one is 80-proof or higher. This isn't club night, stop looking like such an asshole.