Bless Me Fashion, For I Have Sinned

A Recurring Segment on Style Transgressions That Require Far More Than A Stiff "Hail Mary" to Forget.  

December 22, 2012:
The world having officially ended tragically the day before, the last dozen remaining humans find themselves seated in a dimly-lit waiting room on an alien spacecraft.  A door cracks, and Human #13 rejoins his fellow refugees in the holding area as a large blue insect-like receptionist calls for "Blacky Bakestar" to accompany her to the interrogation room.  As the large-headed, lanky Earthman takes his seat at the table arranged in the middle of the room, his dazed thoughts are interrupted by the click of a tape recorder as it is activated and slid over to him by the ghastly, six-eyed triceratops that sits across from him.  The alien speaks pleasantly and slow:  "As you know, we've been watching your planet for some time, Mr. Backsteer.  We have many questions for you.  Ties, pocket squares, 'war-story jewely'...we are truly fascinated to know more and can't wait for the opportunity to probe your brain." 

The human says nothing but merely adjusts his wrist accoutrement.  "But most importantly of all, Earthman, we are absolutely dying to know..." the studious creature pauses and glances at its other head, "what is a 'Tru White Playa' and why did they behave in such an unproductive, detestable, and self-degrading manner?  Throughout our entire study on your planet, the question of the exact purpose of their lamentable existence has puzzled even the brightest minds of our society. We were hoping you could enlighten us."

I chuckle slightly.  And after straightening my tie, this is how I respond:

POST #1:  The Plague of the White Gangsta

As a recovering yet still compulsive people-watcher in malls, airports, and festivals, I have often found myself staring uncontrollably (and with quite an air of condemnation) at some of the most atrocious spectacles this side of extreme poverty that are sure to give you that last push to relinquishing any remaining faith you had left in people.  Everywhere, these "individuals" walk among civilized socialites, swooping in on an occasional female whose cognitive assets lie in the red zone of nonexistence.  The rest of us stand in gaping astonishment, shaking our heads in disbelief and denial at the degeneration of the gene pool of humanity.  
I speak, of course dear readers, of the odious population sub-genres of:
The Thug, the White Gangsta, the Tru-Playa, the Cracker, the Dude-Bro, Le Douche, The D-Bag, The White Wrapper, the Frat-Boy, the Wigga, and of course, the Cast Member (or imitator) of the television fecal matter hour known as "Jersey Shore."   

Additionally, one blogger defined the members of these groups as:  "An individual who has an over inflated sense of self-worth, compounded by a low level of intelligence, [over-dependence on alcohol,] behaving ridiculously in front of colleagues, with no sense of how moronic he may appear.

To the absolute disgust of the few remaining gentlemen on the planet, these "finger-gun pointing," beer pong obsessed Neanderthals continue to inundate the majority of social scenes with a degenerate absurdity that until recently would have only been tolerated if coming from a drunk Canadian tourist.  Adorned with enough Ed Hardy to fill an outlet store yet still oddly never managing to find a belt, these chin-bearded train wrecks live on the edge each and every day--never knowing if the world will write them a ticket for indecent exposure in addition to their usual "menace to the integrity of society" charge. 

But in case you still find yourself at a loss for words when faced with such a waddling, lump of lard following its bimbo pick-of-the-week through a Wet Seal, here's a handy, easy to remember acronym to ensure you can make the proper judgment call on the spot:

M ay find it hard to run long distances as the crotch of his basketball shorts are usually to the knee and require one free arm to continuously act as a single suspender.
O pportunities for employment will often slip through the well-tattooed fingers of this individual due to a lack of professionalism in dress, speech, and general hygienic appearance.
R unning is the suggested action if you are a female approached by one of these psuedo-males given that you are not currently looking for a romantic relationship filled with infidelity, alcoholism, egotistical battles with a limited wit, and the constant assurance that every photograph of you over the course of your relationship will involve a gang sign or "finger-gun" pose with an accompanying bulldog pout.
O ften only discovers upon incarceration that the reason for the previous years of over-masculinity and arrogant over-compensation is that all he ever really wanted was a big-hairy cellmate named Baby to keep him company.
N egligence in studies as a result of a dependence on alcohol and frat-boy comradery ensures the remaining 50 years of life will be spent attempting to regain the sparkle of those brainless, good ol' 7 years of college.

So the next time any of you gents find yourself standing indecisively in front of the monstrous, black and white half-nude male portrait that beckons those of low IQ to enter into its hellish Hollister dungeon--remember the above acronym and just walk away. Your sinuses may never recover from even walking near the place, but your gentlemanly conscience will thank you repeatedly--as will the thousands of people-watchers who no longer need to carry around as large a barf bag on account of your stylish resolve.


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