Hatefully Stylish

Two words infuriate me more than most things in the world these days: skinny jeans.

I often find myself walking along the street, happily minding my own. And then my blood begins to boil. Mincing down the pavement towards me, I see a group of hip young chaps sporting the latest line of stupid denim.  I find my fists clench at the searing anger, knowing these little idiots have spent at least an hour trying to squeeze their  'male' legs into what can only be described as stylised compression bandages.

I’m fairly sure my ire comes across as completely irrational, and I’m sure for the most part it’s justifiable to think so. Maybe my anger comes from a deep-seated jealousy at possessing calf muscles that just won’t slide into these vile things? Or maybe I have an overwhelming urge to have my own mangina, but simply lack the confidence to self operate? These are both distinct possibilities. But I’m sorry to disappoint you; neither is the case. Part of the reason I hate them so much is because I cannot conceive how men would want to dress so effeminately and how women would welcome it with such aplomb. It’s not even like its androgyny.

But my biggest issue with skinny jeans, aside from the feminine undertones and the stupidity of the look, is where the flying fuck do they put their testicles?  I’ll tell you where. Walking behind one such over-styled idiot, I made the mistake of looking lower than his shoulders, fake NHS glasses, slanty hairdo and pointless scarf. There, beneath his ladylike bottom were what can only be described as two very squashed grapes. It was like watching the world's tiniest lava lamp as they gyrated against his cheeks. My acid reflux kicked in and the next thing I know, I'm swallowing my own sick. Beautiful.