I went out the other night with some mates to The Chieftan Pub for some steamers and beer.
Now, it may be argued that a bucket of steamers is just about the finest appetizer ever crafted by God or Man -- it's like eating delicate tiny vulva dipped in butter. And washed down with cold ale, it's a slice of Heaven. But as these little minges made their way down my oesophagus, something happened that was to shake my faith in the way the universe works. Yeah -- my buddies started talking about clothes.
Now, these mates of mine aren't women. They're guys -- sports addicted, minge-loving guys. They smoke cigars, play darts, and subscribe to Maxim. They drive trucks and jeeps and down enough beers in the course of an evening to float a small battleship. And, apparantly, they also discuss clothes.
One of them was in the process of getting rid of old unused clothes and purchasing some new. Sure, it happens -- I've done it myself. Go down to the local Milton's, or T.J. Maxx, or EMS and grab some new duds cause the old are threadbare and have a few holes here and there. But I never discuss it with anyone.
These blokes started comparing price, and coloration, and stores where the best deals could be had. They kept discussing, but I had to tune it out. My face was getting red. Had I blundered unwittingly into some strange alternate reality? I was afraid one was going to start asking "do I look fat in these jeans?".
Maybe it's my hangup though. I mean I'm no angel. I write poetry. I play the piano. When these same mates spend hours analyzing the upcoming NFL draft or complex player statistics I tend to drift off and think about books or Star Trek.
Maybe in this modern metrosexual world guys take pride in their appearance: pumice their elbows and heels, wax their chests, rub lotion and creams into their skin, and pick out matching towels and linens.