Monday, March 16, 2015

Dear Top Hat Guy

The other week, I was at the casino, getting my monthly free dinner splurge.  Afterwards, I wandered around for a bit, gaming and enjoying myself.  The only reason I set any of this up is to point out where I was, or more importantly, where I wasn't.  It wasn't a wedding, gala, or inauguration of any kind.  I had the day off, I was out relaxing, having fun, and getting hit on by a very attractive cougar while I had a belly full of waffle fries and golobki.  Things were a-ok in my book, until I look over the head of the very short but well put together lady touching my arm to see you standing ten feet away.  Thanks to you, I had to explain to that lady, who, by all methods of standard weights and measures, had a ratio of boobs to body of nearly 43% thanks to her short stature and ample bosom, why I was discreetly taking pictures of a guy.  Specifically, you.  You, with that dopey look on your face.  You, with that brand new set of Etnies kicks, and you, with that damned hat.

Part of me wants to applaud you.  Clearly, you give not one damn what anyone thinks of you.  If you did, at the very least you wouldn't be wearing mom jeans.  Maybe, by writing this letter, I am committing some extraneous form of body shaming.  I started think I could be in the wrong, because no one else seemed to be having the reaction to your dumb, stupid hat that I was.   Perhaps I am the one that needs to rethink things.  Surely in my past I had worn stupid things to try to get attention.  Sure, I was younger, and mostly drunk at the time, but I had done it. 

So, there I was, having a moral crisis as I stood in front of The Walking Dead slots with a woman that was very nearly half boobs.  I thought, maybe more people should be like you, just running free, doing what they want because it feels good.

Then I remembered that we've tried that before.  They were called hippies and beatnicks and they ruined everything.  You are lucky I was indoors, where there were no rocks I could throw at you, you Maynard G. Krebs, Wavy Gravy looking son of a bitch. 

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