TREND HUMPER

MODERN FASHION: as observed by a hipster.

I enjoy things that are amazing.  Of course, I'm talking about tight, high waist-ed pants here. 

Just... pulled up—straining. 

Depending on gender, splitting the nuts into two oblong, oddly palpable orbs—leaving captain cock to choose sides or, cleaving the moose knuckle—the seam gobbled up within the bulbous folds of this engorged hot dog bun.  Either way, it's like gazing into the face of god.  The anatomy so perfectly displayed yet held captive... restrained.  The beautiful, lyrical contradiction. 

One thinks (to quote the master bard); “Dearest Gods, I should but turn mine eyes—and yet... how dost this gossamer veil o'er yon spongy cleft implore, thus?  I have no recourse but to give feast, the most enlightened of senses.”

--fucking Shakespeare, yo

Or, for the less literary minded in the lot;  “Holy fuck, I can see that chick's cervix.” 

--this douchebag I know named Trent

They are private parts... no?  Yet their subtle curvature, glorious peaks and valleys are right there. Staring at you.  Demanding you stare back.  This dichotomy perplexes and satisfies—a divine marriage of opposing forces. Dualism perfectly orchestrated.  Descartes would be overjoyed. 

What I'm getting at here is, I like looking at your junk.

No, I kid, I jest.  Tis but the whimsical nature of my joculariousness.

I am no pervert.  No, no, no... I said, NO!  I too yank my vacuum-packed pants to the wincing point.  I challenge the stitching with every confident stride.  I dare you pants.  I fucking dare you!  Sure, the pain is nearly unendurable. My scrote divided like the Koreas.  Partners in sack, they remain true in their joint effort to attract the eyes of young tenders as they pass me in the mall, nearly dropping their American Apparel bags which vomit forth neon leggins and grossly oversized costume jewelry, as they are caught in the ropey wisps of whip-lash, double takes. Yes, their aim is pure, their veracity unmatched—and yet, it is their separation that completes their unity.  Holy fuck!  Mind explosion! 

But how, you ask, can you be so certain about a style of pants when fashion trends are fleeting and temporal? 

And I say, “Shut your dick face!” 

Alright, let me explain.  I am a frickin' badass.  What some of you might call a hipster or scenester or some such shit.  My pants are tight and high (as we've discussed) , my (new) vintage tee-shirts are also form-fitting—clinging to malnourished and sickeningly visible bone structure—they boldly bare slogans so ironic that they're not... but so not that they are.  My Converse high tops once belonged to a some old guy that this one guy thought was Jesus.  Fucking JESUS!  I wear ice-blue contacts under my Ray Ban, non-prescription, vanity glasses cause that's the way I goddamn roll.  But that shit doesn't even matter, cause my flat-ironed, raven black, floppy comb-over, hair-do all but conceals my entire face (making it difficult to see or drive—which is cool cause that shit is for fascists!).  Only my pouting lips protrude—snake bite piercings glinting menacingly in the murky light of once-truly-enjoyable-now-uber-trendy dive bars. Often times you'll catch me wearing a baseball cap sporting a graffiti art logo, rakishly turned to the side—brim as flat as the chests of the chicks of my ilk.

Anyhoo, what I'm trying to tell you here is this: my opinion matters.  Actually, it is only mine that matters.  What I say is amazing, is amazing.  And I just fucking love tight-ass, high waist-ed pants.  Now, I'm not talking about old people with atrophied skeletons and muscles—hips ground down to bone china as they shakily flee the relentless army of minutes, hours and years clawing after them—not those decay reeking geriatrics with their belts cinched just under withered nipples.  You know what I mean.  You know what kind of tight fucking pants I'm talking about.  That kind that's down-right, hands down, down and dirty, low-down... hold on, let me down this Jager Bomb.

I lost my train of thought here.  Let me have my assistant (sister) read this back to me.

… ah yes.  PANTS!  Tight ones.  Cool as shit.  That's my trend evaluation. 

You know what?  Fuck you guys.