Quote of the Day:
“It’s okay! I’m okay!” -Mankini Gnome, Gnomeo and Juliet
Picture in the privacy of your mind’s eye, if you please, a man. A large man, perhaps six feet tall and well over 300 pounds. With long and flowing grayish-brown, but scraggly hair. A bald spot on top. About fiftyish. And, oh yeah, he is wearing a leopard print speedo. You know, like a European. I think his kind prefer to call them “weenie bikinis.”
I’m sorry we had to go through that together.
TB is even sorrier that I have been subjected to just such a man’s uninhibited sunbathing for the last several weeks at our neighborhood swimming pool. The dude struts in smiling at everyone, with a kind word for all, which in itself is kind of irritating because you know that within seconds your gonna see that banana hammock start swingin’ and you resent that you can’t help but kind of like the guy. He disrobes with a flourish, lotions up ostentatiously, stretches to the sky, and then squats everything perfectly in to place before reclining comfortably in his usual chair at the head of the pool, oblivious of the sideways stares darting his way. After thirty minutes or so, he rises. His whole self, I mean, and walks on the balls OF HIS FEET to the deepest entry point and executes a flawless shallow dive. He gets up ON HIS FEET and pushes the wet hair from his face and looks up to the sun as if it is his ancient conquered foe, a sort of half grin, half smug show of superiority over the daylit cosmos. The repeatedly performed symphony reaches its, um, climax, when he assumes a supine floating position, chest hair waving like the fruited plains of the heartland, arms outstretched as if posing for DaVinci.
Ok, that’s a lot of detail, but trust me, you cannot…not…watch.
And I’m not the only one. It seems some of the neighborhood busy-bodies were offended. I can’t completely blame them because, the truth is, it’s a pretty horrendous thing to behold. But being self-righteously indignant was not enough. They complained to our neighborhood management company, who, like good little fascists, immediately commissioned three new signs, on my dues dollar to replace the perfectly functional old ones, with the RULES OF THE POOL. Included as of July 9, 2012……”Proper attire required at all times.”
Can anybody guess who the new rule was aimed at? Yep. Mr. Carefree Overweight Fashion Forward is confined to bermuda shorts for the duration. Yeah, the rule is vague. But he had a feeling it might apply mainly to men wearing bikinis so he asked. They assured him the rule was not directed at him. It was directed at ALL men wearing schlong suits. In other words, him.
I cannot say that I am going to miss seeing his leopard lizard. By the same token, so what if I don’t like it. He isn’t hurting anyone. No child producing parts are actually visible–well, their outlines are, but no skin. What is it with people that we can’t just mind our own damn business and look the other way when other people don’t satisfy our sense of fashion propriety? I think this all started with the baggy pants song. It’s reached a crescendo with the hoodie hate. I can’t stand the thug-life look myself but I hate even more going in to a convenience store that has a sign on the front door warning off anyone with baggie pants and hoodies. So anyway, now the self righteous fashion police have brought the fight to my own little corner of the so-called mainstream universe over an aging-possible-former-porn-star’s Mississippi Garden Snake. Mr. Fat Man in a Tiny Thong, I hate what you wear, even if it does serve as a delightfully amusing twist on the old Chris Farley gag. But I defend to the point of insanity your right to embarrass thyself.