Monday, August 30, 2010


This is an open letter to all of the major players in the world of fashion: designers, magazine publishers, and retail manufacturers. This is in regard to a disturbing trend that has developed over recent years that absolutely has to be stopped.

Now I have a notion of how it is determined what is in vogue for those concerned with modern culture. Major media outlets are a palette upon which many creations of the fashion world are on display for consumers to see and imitate like packs of lemmings, gladly running into department stores with pocketfuls of money and exiting blindly through a side exit off a cliff into a sea of hip and cool. That I got.

Now with respect to female fashion, it seems to me that a few years back there was a summit of sorts where the powers that be in the industry gathered and decided to cultivate a particular “look” geared towards women aged 40 and below . This “look” is something that I like to refer to as the “dirty whore.”

Exposed mid-riffs and low rise waistlines are all the rage with the gals these days. Waiflike models are displayed everywhere on TVs, billboards, magazines and the internet, pouting their way into our psyche, regurgitating their dirty whore upon us like so many secret cheeseburgers.

Now don’t get me wrong…I am a red-blooded heterosexual male, and when packaged properly, the DW look can sport me a raging semi. A “come hither” glance hovering over some pronounced cleavage and exposed sultry curves offers the suggestion that perhaps there may be some sort of blowjobbery afoot, a mystery that I find requires investigation and perhaps even some undercover work by a private dick.

But let’s be honest, this look is NOT for everyone. Back in the early 80s after Jane Fonda was mostly done hating America, she produced a workout video sparking an aerobic craze that included the wearing of form fitting spandex. Sage wisdom has told us that “spandex is a privilege, not a right,” and the same can be said for Dirty Whore fashion.

I currently reside in a modestly sized West Texas town, where chain restaurants and “home cookin’” type establishments rule the dining scene. There exists here a concept that any culinary delight can be further enhanced by deep frying the shit out of it, and serving it up with small vat of Ranch dressing. As a result, many of the denizens of said establishments possess the girth that many of them covet while fishing for trophy bass.

As a skateboarding commuter one fated day during the heat of summer, I was an optical casualty of a most egregious transgression of the DW concept. Rounding a street corner downtown, I encountered an impassable obstacle, a very fat woman, encompassing much of the given walkway. To commit to the left would have risked abrasions from restored masonry, and as the right option flirted with a headfirst curb-job, my fate seemed sealed…I had to scoop up my long board and work in accordance with traditional pedestrians. This impassable detour had emerged from some sort of new-agey trinket shop that by my guess must have sold fudge wind-chimes, cotton candy dream catchers, or bacon scented candles.

She was by my account, completely fat and shameless, sashaying forth with the air of a rock starlet and the girth and grace of Mama Cass. How a woman of her proportions wedged herself into a halter-top, low-rise jeans, and high heels (that I swear I heard whimpering beneath her gait,) looked at her reflection, and decided “oh yeah…this is hot” cannot readily be explained by psychologists and physicists alike.

Yet there she was, crammed into all of this sluttery, like a hearty sausage that had been cobbled together using bits and pieces of various casings allowing fat and meat to ooze out from between their confines, she seemed the shoddy work of a budget franksmith.

The view from behind was absolutely horrific. Did I mention she was wearing thong underwear? You bet she was, and what might be called a “waistband” seemed to be having difficulty as it cut into the equator of her saddlebags, one side riding towards the northern hemisphere, while the other seemed content to nestle in the furrow it had created. The tensile strength of this alleged “waistband” was certainly being tested as her payload shifted from hip to hip. It looked like two Easter hams in the throes of a heated tug-of-war match aboard a turbulent airplane cabin filled with large curd cottage cheese.

And on this day as she lumbered through the 100+ degree Texas heat, what of the cruel fate involving the other connecting piece that was forced to travel due south through what was surely a valley most foul? I expected that prolonged smothering in such a toxic gravy would eat away at the fabric forcing it to give way, and what remained of the beleaguered string would just hang limp over her belt sadly, like the tail of a mother chihuahua that had just lost a puppy.

My retinas sufficiently seared, paired with a cocktail of impatience and disgust at my obstacle were escalating in the Texas heat, so I decided to just cut bait and pump it to the other side of the street, only to have to cross back over in 2 blocks. As I pushed along to my destination, the seeds of this appeal to the world of fashion began to take root in the furrows of my brain.

Can there be a size limit to certain elements of Dirty Whore fashion?? Can common sense be implemented to benefit the segment of the public that is not blind, or disciples of Sir-Mix-A-Lot?? If a halter-top could be utilized by Gulf shrimp trawlers to corral the oil spill, couldn’t you just market it as that, and not a plus-sized halter-top??

Granted, as a guy, I don’t have the lifeguard’s body I possessed 20 years ago, which is why I avoid “athletic cut” t-shirts and other such form-fitting attire. No one wants to see that shit, so out of modesty and courtesy, I gladly and willfully comply.

But the non-compliant ones…can you just make a ceiling of size 8 or 10 on the DW look?? PETA schmeta, this is a supremely humane endeavor I am proposing. Designers, magazine publishers, and retail manufacturers…can the mumu become all the rage?? Look in your hearts, and make the proper choice, the obvious choice, the decent choice.

Best Regards,
Mr. LF Esquire