I'd rather be burlesquing.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

The post in which I rant about asses

While living in the nation's capital, there are a plethora of wonderful things to see and do. The galleries and museums alone are enough to keep you busy for several days. Top off your culture buffet with a good dose of lager and fish and chips, and you have yourself a decent vacation.

However, I must say, aside from all of the wonderful things to partake of in the city that I currently call home, there are several things that I have definitely had my fill of:

1. White Peasant Skirts.
While I have no specific issue with wanting to look like you belong on the cover of a Harlequin Romance Novel, I do have issues with the careless neglect that women tend to be putting in to their accompanying knicker selection. Maybe it's all part of the theme - I'm not sure - but I've had my fill of threadbare white peasant skirts, discreetly unearthing a healthy portion of white granny knicker ass with every step.

I don't know how this happens. Maybe it's because I was raised in a generation where the word slip went hand-in-hand with bra. Or pantyhose. But without sounding too much like I eat my corn creamed and smell of rose-scented lotion and perm solution; seriously ladies, take a look at your rear when you buy these things. If you can see the knickers, maybe it's time to look beyond H&M. I know £9.99 is hard to pass up, but seriously.

2. Thong-th-thong-thong-thong.
Jeans appear to keep getting lower, and there doesn't seem to be any stopping them. While I understand that this is a direct product of the less-is-more society that we seem to be living in, there is a limit. I have seen underpant disasters where it is all I can do to keep myself from asking the guilty party to remove her pants, because quite simply, we are at the point of no return.

And despite my clever throwback to everyone's favorite pop song, it ain't just thongs. I've seen every kind of pant imaginable waving out the top of trousers. Do me a favour, reach round to your rear every now and then, and stuff those honeys back down to where the sun don't shine.

And last but not least...

I have to admit to occassionally falling for this one. I have definite car-wreck syndrome when it comes to the butt crack. Try as I might, I am fixated and cannot look away. Maybe it's the disbelief, the pure shock, that these people cannot feel the cool breeze on their nether regions. I have born witness to butt crack that amazes me. Some seem to reach clear up to mid-back. It's spectacular. I am always very aware of where my bits - all of my bits - are, and the thought of unknowingly doing a strip tease with each reach towards my pint glass, is too much to bare.(ha!)

So, call me a prude, if you will. Maybe this is all a part of one big fashion statement that exceeds my 27-year old fashionista vocabulary. Maybe the time has finally come, and I have officially fallen out of the fashion loop.

But if so, I'm not really sad about it.

If you visit London, do take in Tate Modern, ride the Millenium Wheel, take a gander at Picadilly Circus. Just be forwarned; you may see more than you bargained for.


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