As I told you just this morning, I’m not a big fan of the heat/humidity/haze. Indeed, if it were possible to completely hibernate starting right now and continuing through September (or whenever the inevitable “Indian summer” decides to stop extending this hell), I would certainly do so. But it’s not just that I deplore being uncomfortable and feeling like half of my body weight is lost through my pores every time I step outside for more than two minutes. No, that’s bad enough. But what is worse is, of course, Other People.
Yes, other people. Always the bane of my existence, always the objects of my scorn, always the one “thing” that can ruin my day if given even half a chance. Yes, other people manage to somehow turn a perfectly uncomfortable experience into a completely revolting one — and they don’t even have to make too much of an effort. No, they do enough damage just by being out on the street, wearing what they wear when the temperature insists on approaching the three-digit mark.
If I wind up in court some day, defending myself for a series of murder charges, I will instruct my attorney to use the following exhibits on my behalf:
- Exhibit A: Shirtless Men. I have nothing against shirtless men. In fact, a shirtless man is often a good thing, especially when it is offered in the form of “All My Children” stud Cameron Mathison. But a man whose shirtlessness displays a torso so soaked in sweat that the hair on it is plastered to his wan, bulbous gut, and reveals that his cavernous bellybutton (I hate this word, but there are no good alternatives) could, indeed, be used as a receptacle for melted butter during a lobster-fest, and whose wobbling, shimmering expanse indicates that he has indeed participated in too many indulgent episodes involving butter (melted or otherwise), well …
- For the record, I am not a big fan of ambulatory shirtlessness. I don’t mind it at all if you’re in the park and you’re sitting or lying on the grass, or if you’re on the beach, or even if you’re a fabulous Chelsea boy rollerblading down Eighth Avenue. But don’t just stroll down an ordinary street sans shirt. (And yes, that even goes for Cameron.)
- Exhibit B: Braless Broads. No, fellas, this isn’t as sexy as some of you no doubt think it is. I saw a woman the other day whose tits melded with her waist to form an amorphous pendulum of unprecedented magnitude, and trust me when I tell you that it was perhaps one of the most repellent sights I’ve seen in quite a long time. And believe me, I’ve seen plenty, including knockers that did indeed do just that, bringing to mind those old “clackers” that I used to have years ago — two glass (yes, glass back then) balls, each attached to a string that was fastened at the top to a little handle that, when jostled by a flick of the wrist, would clack the balls together, causing them to rebound off of one another in full “be careful, you’ll put someone’s eye out” force. Ladies, bras are our friends. I know they may be a bit uncomfortable when the weather is so unkind, but please be kind and wear one.
- Aside: If you do support me in this campaign and wear a bra, make sure its straps do not show. If the shirt you’re wearing cannot effectively hide your straps, then either wear a shirt that can or find a bra that can remain out of sight.
- Exhibit C: Asses A-GoGo, a Great Big NoNo. If your ass, when viewed through your tight white stretch pants under direct sunlight, resembles anything close to cottage cheese, then I suggest you consider adding some to your diet, and for god’s fucking sake, change your pants. I don’t care if you are abundantly equipped in the ass department. Just wear pants that flatter it. Believe it or not, there are pants out there that are not made of cheap spandex. I’ve seen “plus-size” women who wear them, and they look fantastic.
I rest my case.