Dear Skinny Jeans,
You are one fickle, sneaky, stubborn opponent. You rival the scariest of ghosts; you haunt our every waking and dreaming (but really nightmaring thanks to you) moment. One minute you’re simpatico, the next you’re about as easy to get into as one of the Duggar girls. Which actually may be easier than they make it seem on TV. Because their outlook on sex is just really unrealistic. And if the oldest brother is any indication, those motherfuckers’ bodies are ready.
Why must you exist. I have a bone to pick with the person responsible for your conception. Because the thing is, we like stretchy clothes. And we eat. So we don’t love trying to squeeze into skinny jeans. Like why can’t we all just wear leggings and/or sweatpants and call it a day? Does anyone actually enjoy having their thighs constricted by denim? Like, do you like it when the bitchy Latina nurse ties the chafe-y elastic band around your arm and pulls tight like she’s playing tug of war and the prize is job appreciation? Didn’t think so. Our butt and thighs and love handles are not sausages in need of casing. They are sausages in need of freedom; (really–I’m pretty sure they have the same fat content and general appearance as a pork link).
The only reason people like you is because they consider you to be flattering–slimming. And they think that skinny is better, so it’s better to be able to fit into skinny jeans than to not. You’re like a key to a secret club–a club made of desirable, attractive, slender people. As long as someone can pull you off, they’re welcome. But as soon as they plump up, muffin top out, their membership is revoked. But the thing is, beauty is subjective, doesn’t last forever (at least outwardly), and doesn’t define a person. So, really, you are baseless. You have no leg to stand on. Or, you have no leg to… clothe? Whatever–the point is, you’re just another fad, another bandwagon trend, another capricious hobby of the vapid masses, and soon enough you’ll Heath Ledger–burn out and fade away, baby.
And, in the meantime, please stop taunting us. Because as long as you’re around, we’re going to try but fail to get into you. We might as well be rapists. And we’re going to pretend like having you around is a good system of checks & balances for us, a la the three branches of the U.S. government, so we never get to the point where we can’t fit in you, when really, you’re just the rain on everyone’s parade and we don’t want you anyway and you can’t sit with us and it’s our party and we’ll cry if we want to. So kindly leave. Make like a black kid’s father and split.
Our big hips
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