The Altogether
Just been thinking for a minute.
It’s the first couple of weeks of summer, the end of the 4th of July weekend. That time of the year when folks are sweating by the bucket load. That time of the year when women wear less and fellas drop more slobber and drool than Sprint drops phone calls. As one of the millions of confused bastards here in the City of Seraphims, I’m kind of….confused. In a city intergalactically known for entertainment, style, and all kinds of creativity, why is it that everyone here looks the same? I’m not talking about facially or racially. I’m loathing the clothing. Sometimes I think that I’m in an episode of Battlestar Gallactica, battling cyclons and other clones. If everyone is going to wear the same three outfits, have the same four hairstyles, and say the same two catchphrases like mindless zombies, then we all should just take the easy route–the slackest, laziest way out. Let’s forget about fashion and just walk around in the altogether, in other words, naked.
We’ll save time by not putting on clothes. We might as well. There are too many “Like, OMG!” cookie-cutter people saying jazz like, “Like, OMG!” Everyone in the nude means the end of scented and/or dye-free laundry detergent, getting busted by your spouse for cheating because of an inside-out shirt or lipstick on the collar, and accidentally wearing the same outfit that that trick at work wore the other day. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. It would also mean the end of stuff falling out of your pockets, masked robbers, people having the gross moral turpitude for wearing Kobe Bryant jerseys, and the end of the wedgie as we know it. No one could ever put a “boot up your ass” again. You could even see how much your boyfriend really likes your sister or best friend when she walks into the room.
Perfect excuse to give to the charity worker in front of the grocery store, “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.” Why? Because you don’t. You don’t have any pockets. Unless you’re part kangaroo. And then that would just be outright nasty. People, publicly being in our birthday suits could mean the end of gang colors and tribal warfare. No more strip clubs. Hmmmm. No more prom pictures. Couldn’t mistake those transvestites for women anymore, huh? Adam and Eve would become fashion icons. Nudists, all of a sudden, would be trendsetters and “kind of cool.” The projected job prospects for professional pickpockets in the upcoming years look very low. When someone claims to be capable of “knocking your socks off,” you know that person’s full of shite. Tattoos in “secret places” are…whatever…you ain’t that special. Everybody’s places aren’t secret, and everybody’s parts ain’t private anymore. No more red carpet crap of rich people sporting free clothing that poor people make for pennies. No more clothing drives. Google Earth becomes Google Birth, as you can see any birth anywhere in the world via satellite. Love handles are the new black. The last pair of corduroy overalls is guarded by 20 armed security personnel at the Smithsonian.
Warmer regions of the planet would experience an almost immediate influx of former cold climate dwellers. Less frisking at the airport. More frisking everywhere else. Mass confusion at sporting events. No more lapel pins. Don’t have to dress up for work anymore–every day is Casual Friday. Popping your collar in the near future? I don’t think so. Now, you can exclusively use your iron to cook grilled cheese sandwiches. A clothes hangers could be used for its original purposes: a poor man’s boomerang and a strangulation device. Shoestrings look like floss for people with big front-teeth gaps to me. Belts, ties, and bras could be used as…I don’t really know what. Any ideas? I’m done with this. Enough useless thinking for today. I hereby begin the no-clothes movement. Who’s with me?
Until then, keep your shirt on,
Be well.
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 