I’m too sexy for my shirt.

You all know the song. It will drag people to a dance floor at a lame-ass wedding just like the stupid electric slide. Don’t be ashamed. It’s fun! But, let’s talk about street fairs. You know the signage-No Shoes, No Shirt…There’s a reason people. Let’s chat. Do you know how many dudes were down at the Azalea Festival way too scantily clad? There were two types. Type A: really pale, really skinny, ONE chest hair flittering gently in the breeze, the bright tomato red glare of sun-burn beginning to frolic about the ab line-delightful. Type B. FAT, FAT, FAT with an excess of oily hair usually plastered to the rolls with a glistening liniment of sweat. Yum. Why, guys? I’m not saying there weren’t underdressed ladies-there were but not like this. This hurts. That is not about embracing ones inner self. And I, being blessed with a very graphic imagination can’t help but further undress you mentally and softly gag and retch. If I knew you and loved you I wouldn’t care, but I still wouldn’t let you outside like that. No, uhunh. Hey, I’m not cruisin’ the streets with my baggy post baby body in a string bikini and those clear pageant heels with a sadly bedraggled bikini wax and you should be thankful! (Even though I still think those freakin’ clear shoes are divine. I’m sorry I do and I also love Dolly Parton so deal with it. And why bother paying $60 for a wax when two nights ago my husband blankly looked at my across the table and said “Why can’t I remember your middle name?) I promise to recover from the horrors of Azalea Fest soon but I am so scarred. So, so scarred. And scared. Blech.

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