I’m not sure if this gent has been getting his sartorial tips from flipping through too many recent volumes of GQ. You know the ones I mean: those fat summer issues with the multi-page clothing photo shoots showing some 130-pound 6-footer in size 26-long skinny stretch jeans that end nearly at mid-calf, above a pair of screaming yellow ribbed socks, and an outrageously exorbitant pair of butter-soft oxblood tassel loafers, laughingly lounging beside an infinity pool in the Greater Antilles along with five other lank and equally giddily garbed gigolos.
Or a dude that looks like he hasn’t had so much as a junior cheeseburger in the last 20 years, but is somehow still able to afford a too-small $8K chalk-stripe blazer over an $1,800 sea-foam green cashmere vest, shirtless, yet still accented by some fey $700 ascot that looks like one of Timothy Leary’s worst bad-trip nightmares.
Perhaps he has instead gotten caught up in the peculiar stylings of the cloned minions of Nation of Islam — crisply starched gleamingly white shirt with French cuffs studded by onyx-and-silver cufflinks, perpetually buttoned-down suit coat, pin-striped gabardine slacks, highly buffed shimmering two-tone shoes, close-cropped hair, an absence of facial fuzz or sideburns, etc. (On the other hand, no, that can’t be it: if it were, he would be wearing the obligatory wrap-around reflective black sunglasses and a piously surly and condescending expression.)
Maybe, as a child of the ‘80s, he just fell in love with the too-tightly-wrapped character that MJ, The Gloved One so often displayed on stage and in public, and felt compelled to mimic the King of Pop in his own way.
But no matter what influence has brought it about, it is increasingly painfully obvious that this guy’s wardrobe is just . . . TOO . . .TIGHT! (Why else would he be airborne from the sheer hurt of it all?)
Note the atypical roseate flush spreading upward through cheeks to ears and forehead. Looks like strangulation is already well in progress, with attendant compression of larynx, laryngopharynx and/or tracheal vertebrae. Guess a shirt collar of a slightly greater circumference might be in order!
And check out those hands, will ya? They are not swollen due to edema. Nor is kidney disease or damage to blame for their puffily inflated appearance. Likewise arthritis. Nope. Just cuffs that are far too restricting, links or no!
Meanwhile, the ankles and insteps of both feet appear to be in great pain as well. We can’t blame gout, or tendinitis, or stress fracture, or sprain, or osteoarthritis, or simple fatigue. Once again, the cinching of shoelaces and stockings are simply too severe.
It’s no wonder the poor fella is puckered and exhaling — there’s just not enough room in that sausage-skin of a suit of his for two healthy lungs to infuse enough air for comfort and survival! (And judging by the narrow pipe-stemmed pants, I’m not at all sure there’s enough capacity there to even accommodate his, well, stuff, if you know what I mean.)
I’d suggest he start disrobing. And quickly.
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