Friday, December 21, 2007

Kommentary Korner

I don't mean to boast, but sometimes I'm much too overcome with disgust by the folly of others to remain silent. I am speaking, of course, about my impeccable fashion sense. An embarrassingly small number of individuals I encounter any more seem to have a concept of the chic nuances of worldly threads such as the ones draped over my lissome physique. Take my shirt, for example. At first glance, it appears to be nothing more than your conventional pique cotton saffron-colored polo, but, to the more discerning eye, my shirt is a symbol of sophisticated, exotic taste. What these uncultured neanderthals wandering the streets of America don't realize is that my polo shirt was handcrafted deep within the jungles of Cambodia by workers dedicated more to producing a quality garment than to receiving a decent wage. Look at any other component of my vast wardrobe: my Malaysian houndstooth trousers, my Indonesian woven belt, even my Vietnamese plaid unmentionables. Each of these is the very definition of style and a testament to craftsmen who endure appallingly inhumane working conditions for the cause of high class. Until America awakens from its unfortunate fashion funk, my highly refined garb will remain unnoticed by the ignorant masses. Call me when you learn how to dress yourself, America. I'll be at the Gap. --Peter Doe

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