A Tale of Tails

I am not a woman. I do not understand women’s clothing. I do not understand the rules about women’s clothing, or how it works.

I don’t know why women’s shirts are too short. Why can't women’s tops reach down past their waist? I mean, Jesus, I’d spend half the day just tugging at the bottom hem to pull it down. And why are those shirts always worn with low-rise pants?

OK, so actually, I do know why: “Weee, look at my bellybutton!”

We all know the look: low-waist faded jeans with adorable cowgirl boots, waistband hugging the hips about 1 inch from the mons pubis. Jeweled staff piercing the navel. Tramp-stamp (freshly inked) on the lumbar notch bisected by the waist-strap of the uncomfortably-hiked thong panties. Baby doll blouse, two sizes too small, exposing most of the lower torso.

While this look was once reserved for strippers and women from Kentucky, it has now become mainstream. Mind you, I am not complaining. I mean, I enjoy the sight of a buxom babe deliberately displaying plumber’s crack. Hey, Free Show! I don’t even have to tip them a dollar. However, my entertainment aside, what the FUCK are these girls thinking??

We took the Monkey to Sears for her Christmas photo. Yah, I know, Sears… What can I say, we’re cheap parents. Anyway, this was a new experience for me. I’d never actually accompanied a baby to a photo studio before. Let’s just say, I now know what to expect in Dante’s fourth circle…

It apparently takes three semi-trained portrait bimbos to get a stubborn baby to smile and actually take the picture. This may surprise you, and it apparently surprised the employees of the children’s photography studio, but babies are small. All work done with them must necessarily be done near the floor, which, for an adult, means bent over.

If I had a job where I expected to be bent over, or on my knees, for long periods of time in a small room with strangers, I may choose clothing that would conceal my gaping ass crack, but not these three whooping and cooing baby wranglers. No sir, not these slaves to trashy fashion. Without a moment of hesitation, all three assumed “The Position,” elbows on the ground, asses in the air, varying degrees of actual ass-flesh pouring from the over-worked denim.

Sexy, no? Well, to be honest, maybe a little bit, but there were certain complicating factors. First, they were shooshing, ooping, and awing at my little girl. Second, Mrs. Gin-and-Tonic WAS in the room with us. Third, each and every one of them, when assembling their respective thongo-centric ensembles, forgot to remove the tag from the back of their panties, and each of the three tags was standing at attention, waving at me like little white bunny tails.

Forget whether it may or may not be socially questionable to use your slutty underwear as a fashion accessory. It’s not even worth asking. If you want to be slutty-sexy, then be slutty-sexy. However, assume for the sake of argument that your goal is to be slutty-sexy. Then, what the fuck has to be wrong with you to not realize that it’s repulsively ridiculous to leave your GODDAMN TAG ON YOUR PANTIES???? If you feel the need for a little white accent on your coccyx, buy a bunny tail.