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Shhhhh, shhh. Jared here. And listen closely, because I don’t have much time. I’m currently in hiding. From the shirt.
Two days ago, I sat down to watch some Chopped after dinner to close out a long day of grinding content. It had been a day like most days — I woke up, threw on a golf polo, rolled into work, and was ruthlessly berated by three of the four male coworkers I sit with for the next nine hours.
“Your hair looks like that of a homeless Jimmy Neutron,” Will said.
“That’s not very nice, Will,” I responded.
“Hey tubby: I hear your car’s got a flat. Good thing you’ve got that spare tire on your stomach!” Dillon yelled.
“My car is fine. Also, you know I’m self-conscious about my weight, jerk,” I remarked.
“You’re SELF-conscious about your weight? Maybe if you spent more time thinking about others and less time thinking about yourSELF, you wouldn’t be so fucking fat,” went Rob, in typical Rob fashion.
I got to my car after the workday to find that Dave, the fourth male coworker I sit with, was not there to berate me earlier because he had been busy slashing my tires. Well done, dudes. You got me.
Anyways, I got home, ate a massive fatboy dinner because fuck those guys, and plopped down for some riveting Chopped action. What happened next changed the course of my life in ways unimaginable.
I’ve never claimed to be a fashion icon. I’m more of a fashion anti-hero, in a way. I’m well known in some circles for buying the bulk of my wardrobe at various Sports Authority going-out-of-business sales, and in other circles for once wearing the same vintage 1994 oversized Ashworth crewneck sweatshirt for 17 days in a row. I even have a podcast segment in the works for Touching Base called “The Clearance Rack” that will be centered around my valiant effort to save money by cutting back hard in an area most people are far too scared to: my appearance. So in that sense, I have nothing but respect for people who dress the same way I dress.
But a strip club chef? No. Nope. No thanks. Don’t get me wrong — I respect this man’s contribution to society. More power to him. Feeding horny dudes braised meat is cool, I guess. But I just personally don’t want to be associated with that brand of riff raff. Especially when he can’t even make a damn appetizer out of alpaca hot dogs.
I thought the worst was over. I thought I’d weathered the storm. Then I got the text.
Now, this man is playing golf at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday. I respect that. The problem here? Those 12-inch inseam shorts. Inexcusable. Who are you, Rafa Nadal? Shorts going past the knees is like nose hair going past the nostrils, YouTube pre-roll ads, and every Daniel Day Lewis movie — too long.
This trend of people with whom I fundamentally disagree popping up wearing my shirt has me hunkered down in my walk-in closet among my vast golf polo collection with hopes that I’ll never see anyone wearing my shirt ever again.
I can’t talk any longer. I think I just heard someone on the TV in the living room say “60% off.”.