This morning while I was waiting on the platform for a train, a young man walked by wearing an A-shirt (some call them wife beaters, but I would never use that term … publicly), blue boxer briefs, and jeans. How did I know he was wearing blue boxer briefs? His tank top was tucked into the briefs, and his pants were hanging so low that I could not only see the brand of underwear, but also I could see the crotch flap. I couldn’t figure out what statement he was making or why he bothered putting on pants. Is there no more stupid style in the world than wearing your pants below your ass?
I wish this were a passing fad, but I remember the wearing the baggy pants down past the ass thing happening during my last year of teaching high school English, and I have not been in a classroom in twenty years! Yes, folks, this whole show your ass in public crap has been going on for more than two decades. That means we have kids and their parents dressing like this.
There are published studies that talk about how a whole generation of men will have hip problems from trying to walk with their pants below their hips. What is fun is watching them run from the police on Cops. One hand is holding up the pants and the other is trying to grab the fence, so they can hop over. They never do.
I really don’t get it. Apparently it started with kids wanting to show their support for their peers in prison whose pants didn’t fit. Lately, it has been theorized that prisoners whose pants were hanging low were the ones who took it up the ass. Unfortunately, even that bit of knowledge doesn’t seem to deter kids from showing their asses in public.
A kid once made a comment about my dog being so small and gay, and I turned around and said, “You know that wearing your pants like that means you like a hot cock up your ass.” His friends laughed, and he was mortified. Curiously, he continued to wear his pants below his ass.
Sadly, the days of seeing a hot ass in a pair of tight jeans are long gone. Even those who wear their jeans cinched at the waist, wear hip huggers, so when they bend over, we get a coin slot, or in my case, it would be a credit card machine. It is no longer plumber’s crack; it’s everyone’s crack. Thank God, I don’t own a pair of jeans.
Women aren’t excused because as I was walking up the escalator, I had the privilege of checking out a large woman’s thong. Usually, I get a view of bunched up granny panties courtesy of low cut jeans and a really big tuchus.
If all of us just walked around naked, that would be fine, but instead we are showing off our underwear, and usually it isn’t underwear I want to see.
In my day, and I love saying in my day, we didn’t show our bra straps; we didn’t even show our jock straps! Olivia on Jerseylicious wears her bra as if it were a top! Even at the gym, this wearing of the pants below the ass thing is part of everyday workout wear. Not only are you showing me your underwear, but also, I have to sit on that piece of equipment after you did your business with only a thin layer of cotton between you and the vinyl. There aren’t enough wipes to erase that image from my mind.
Have you noticed they also wear the nastiest underwear? If you are going to show me your briefs, the least you could do is put on a clean pair. Yccchhhhh.
There are times when I am walking down the street, and I want to yell, “Pull up your goddam pants!”
However, it doesn’t stop at baggy pants. Let’s talk about nose picking.
My father said that to get a license to drive in Virginia, where I grew up, you had to steer the car, shift gears, and pick your nose at the same time. Well, Virginia, it looks as if your version of the driver’s test is now used from coast to coast.
In my day, and I love saying in my day, we were discreet when picking our noses. You had to flip the couch completely over to see where we hid our buggers. Now, drivers sit at stoplights with their hands so far up their nostrils, you can hardly see their elbows. And, these cruddy bastards make no apologies. Keep your windows closed, or they will flick a bugger right into your passenger compartment or worse, hit you with a zinger while you are in the crosswalk. Funny how the kid in fifth grade who ate buggers is no longer the grossest thing.
A friend of mine finds people who blow their noses at the dinner table gross. Well, I think men who close one nostril then blow onto the sidewalk are more disgusting. I have seen this more times than I care to recall. Buy a pack of handkerchiefs; they are only five dollars at Walmart!
What is happening to us? What happened to class?
In my day, and I love saying in my day. Women wore hats and gloves when they went out. Men wore a suit to the movies. One never, and I mean never, wore shorts to a restaurant unless he was eating at a tiki bar on a tropical island, and you never wore shorts after sundown. You never wore jeans unless you were doing jeans things. I don’t know what jeans things are because I don’t wear jeans.
I never leave the house without full hair and make-up, except for that one quick run to Lowe’s, and everyone knows how that turned out.
I understand that people like to be more casual these days, but does casual mean we throw all decorum out the window? Apparently so because now people perform their bodily functions just about anywhere.
Once, when I was living in DC, I was walking to synagogue one Friday night when this man raced past me and onto a lawn then behind the bushes, and from what I could hear, and believe me, I heard, he took the nastiest crap of his life – farting and shitting himself a new asshole in the process. I was mortified … and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about it.
I could'nt imagine shitting in the bushes. I am not a bear. I don’t even have chest hair. I don’t even fart in front of other people. I will hold a fart until my ears pop before I let one loose in public. Apparently, I am the only member of my family who holds farts. My mother couldn’t walk forward without farting. We were once exiting a restaurant, and she looked over at a guy’s plate and said, “That looks good.” Then she proceeded to fart one continuous fart from his table through the restaurant and into the parking lot.
My father would fart and blame it on an invisible duck.
Lately on every trip home on the Metro, at least one person drops a stink bomb, and usually, not a silent one. My friend Kelvin thinks that public farts are funny. It isn’t funny until the doors open, and you can move to another car. What do these people eat for lunch?
Finally, there is language. I admit I have a mouth that is so dirty sometimes, I wouldn’t kiss your mother with it, but I have never stood in a grocery store and yelled the f-word to someone across the aisle as if I were just saying peanuts. For those who don’t know, the f-word is fuck. I always cringe when there is an old woman standing there, and some teenager is dropping one f-bomb after another.
“Bitch, why are you buying that fucking brand of detergent? That mother-fucking shit won’t get dirt out of anything. Wasting my goddam money. Shit.”
The first time I heard my mother say it, she had just mopped the kitchen floor, and my father walked across it with dirty shoes. “Goddam it, Arnold, I just mopped the fucking floor.” I excused her because I think my mother only mopped the floor three times in twenty-two years.
I just wish I could understand what happened to class. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense to me, and just one more time, “Pull up your goddam pants!”
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