when they are not. They are like the American Idol contestants who think they can sing but cannot. Some may suffer from Amnesiac Bulimia—they binge but they forget to purge—but the results are the same.
Not that we need to starve ourselves like runway models, and God knows, I don’t, but that is exactly why I wear lots of clothes, so you don’t have to see how I’ve let myself go. And I am all for being comfortable. If you want to watch TV at home in your underwear looking like a Nick Nolte mug shot, be my guest. If you want to wear the most tattered and torn things you own while you are out in the back yard gardening, go to it. If you’re planning to make a surprise appearance on Cops , being shirtless makes loads of fashion sense. But if you’re taking the kids to Six Flags or Disney World in an air-conditioned minivan with backseat DVRs, you could wear some decent clothes.
There are some basic fashion rules. Unless your son is playing basketball in the van or is on his way to a basketball game, he shouldn’t be wearing long, baggy, nasty, polyester basketball shorts. Unless your twelve-year-old daughter has a full-time job at Hooters or Victoria’s Secret, she shouldn’t be wearing crotch-high shorts and a Dale Evans vest with no shirt on underneath it. If you never exercise, stop pretending you do by wearing warm-up togs; you’re not fooling anyone. Showing lots of skin is sexy if you’ve got the body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model; if not, not. That goes for men, too. Unless you’re competing for a swimming medal in the Olympics, no one wants to see you in a Speedo. Absolutely no one. I’m not kidding, it’s an offense against God and nature. You may be comfortable but you’re making the rest of us sick.
Years ago we used to have a neighbor who would take off his shirt when he mowed the lawn, but he was a male model working on his tan. Women in the neighborhood would always find time to do yard work when he mowed. They would suddenly have an urge to trim the roses or train the vines or just sweep the walk that didn’t really need sweeping. But few of the guys you see mowing their lawns shirtless are male models—unless they’re the “after” models for nachos and beer.
It wasn’t so long ago that you would see signs that said “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” A few years later it turned into “No shirt, no shoes, no problem.” How long before we start seeing “No shirt, no shoes, bride’s side or groom’s side?” or “No shirt, no shoes, how long did you know the deceased?” or “No shirt, no shoes, let’s transplant this liver!”
If at First Class You Don’t Succeed . . .
S ometimes I wonder what is worse: the airlines or the passengers? On almost every flight I’ve taken the last few holidays, some couple will show up at the very last minute and have to be ushered on board with special airline handlers hustling them through the door, stowing their luggage for them, and getting them settled before rushing out so the crew can shut the cabin door, all under the hateful glare of all the other passengers who had the courtesy to show up an hour early.
Guess whose luggage will come off first? The late passengers’. So why should they bother to show up on time when they get rewarded for their bad behavior? They didn’t have to wait in any lines. They didn’t have to hang around the lounge for an hour sitting in chairs that have been specifically designed to be uncomfortable so homeless people won’t want to live in them. They didn’t have to hear “Would Mr. and Mrs. Liptfitter please report to the main ticket counter?” forty times over a nerve-shredding loudspeaker. They didn’t have to hear it because, of course, they are the Liptfitters.
“Honey, this is so nice, it’s nice to be late,” said Mr. Liptfitter.
“Late? What do you know about being late?” she snapped. “If you had listened to me we would have been two minutes later and they would have
Not that we need to starve ourselves like runway models, and God knows, I don’t, but that is exactly why I wear lots of clothes, so you don’t have to see how I’ve let myself go. And I am all for being comfortable. If you want to watch TV at home in your underwear looking like a Nick Nolte mug shot, be my guest. If you want to wear the most tattered and torn things you own while you are out in the back yard gardening, go to it. If you’re planning to make a surprise appearance on Cops , being shirtless makes loads of fashion sense. But if you’re taking the kids to Six Flags or Disney World in an air-conditioned minivan with backseat DVRs, you could wear some decent clothes.
There are some basic fashion rules. Unless your son is playing basketball in the van or is on his way to a basketball game, he shouldn’t be wearing long, baggy, nasty, polyester basketball shorts. Unless your twelve-year-old daughter has a full-time job at Hooters or Victoria’s Secret, she shouldn’t be wearing crotch-high shorts and a Dale Evans vest with no shirt on underneath it. If you never exercise, stop pretending you do by wearing warm-up togs; you’re not fooling anyone. Showing lots of skin is sexy if you’ve got the body of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model; if not, not. That goes for men, too. Unless you’re competing for a swimming medal in the Olympics, no one wants to see you in a Speedo. Absolutely no one. I’m not kidding, it’s an offense against God and nature. You may be comfortable but you’re making the rest of us sick.
Years ago we used to have a neighbor who would take off his shirt when he mowed the lawn, but he was a male model working on his tan. Women in the neighborhood would always find time to do yard work when he mowed. They would suddenly have an urge to trim the roses or train the vines or just sweep the walk that didn’t really need sweeping. But few of the guys you see mowing their lawns shirtless are male models—unless they’re the “after” models for nachos and beer.
It wasn’t so long ago that you would see signs that said “No shirt, no shoes, no service.” A few years later it turned into “No shirt, no shoes, no problem.” How long before we start seeing “No shirt, no shoes, bride’s side or groom’s side?” or “No shirt, no shoes, how long did you know the deceased?” or “No shirt, no shoes, let’s transplant this liver!”
If at First Class You Don’t Succeed . . .
S ometimes I wonder what is worse: the airlines or the passengers? On almost every flight I’ve taken the last few holidays, some couple will show up at the very last minute and have to be ushered on board with special airline handlers hustling them through the door, stowing their luggage for them, and getting them settled before rushing out so the crew can shut the cabin door, all under the hateful glare of all the other passengers who had the courtesy to show up an hour early.
Guess whose luggage will come off first? The late passengers’. So why should they bother to show up on time when they get rewarded for their bad behavior? They didn’t have to wait in any lines. They didn’t have to hang around the lounge for an hour sitting in chairs that have been specifically designed to be uncomfortable so homeless people won’t want to live in them. They didn’t have to hear “Would Mr. and Mrs. Liptfitter please report to the main ticket counter?” forty times over a nerve-shredding loudspeaker. They didn’t have to hear it because, of course, they are the Liptfitters.
“Honey, this is so nice, it’s nice to be late,” said Mr. Liptfitter.
“Late? What do you know about being late?” she snapped. “If you had listened to me we would have been two minutes later and they would have
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