Dressed Like A Ponce
This week I get to put on a tuxedo and go to Detroit for a customer event. This is more than a minor irritation - leaving aside the fact that I'll miss my soccer game to experience instead the scrote-shrivelingly cold Detroit winter, and the joy of flying Northwest (an airline that hates me and wants nothing more than to take a crap on my travel plans), I also have to rent the penguin suit. This time I decided to try Mens Wearhouse for the rental because as the hairy bloke in the commercial keeps telling me, I'm going to like the way I look. And he guarantees it.
The trouble with renting a tux is that they only appear to be rented out for two occasions:
The common themes seem to be drink and attempted sex, and this always seems to be reflected in the quality of the rental wear, leaving it looking like something in which you might bury an old tramp, if you needed to make him look sort of presentable for the funeral while saving as much money as possible for something more interesting.
Still, this time I expected things might be a little better. For a start, there was an extensive range of suit options. Admittedly most of them would leave you looking like a cross between a homosexual nightclub act and a pimp, but that's always your prerogative. The whole ensemble was also available as a package including the nasty patent leather shoes and a choice of shirt, tie and vest (waistcoat) options. (Don't rent a cummerbund unless you want to look like a cunt; even James Bond couldn't carry that one off.) So I went in last week and ordered all the stuff, making sure that I tried as far as possible to go for a more conservative "club bouncer" look rather than the "cheap lounge singer" image. And today I got to go back in and try all the shit on.
Credit where it's due - the sizes were all about right, and the trousers and jacket didn't look bad (although I resisted the obvious temptation to give them a once-over DNA check with a blacklight). The shirt, however, was a different story. You know those vet shows on TV - the ones where the caring vet is on his way to a grand dinner-dance when he gets an urgent call to go an tend to Farmer Smith's prize cow who is struggling through calving? He's there in the cow-byre, up to his knees in straw and shit with his dinner jacket hung on a nail and his sleeves rolled up. There's a metal pail of water next to him and he has his arm shoulder-deep in the cow's nether regions. It's all blood, shit and afterbirth as he delivers the calf and everyone cheers in relief. Well, the shirt he was wearing was the one they gave me today.
I could only guess at the real story. The stains on the cuff were pretty extensive, and I don't think beer could have been the cause (after all the beer round here's practically water anyway). My working assumption is that either the prom date or the bridesmaid was on the blob at the time of the last wearing, leading to a messy encounter in the dark and much distress when the light was turned on and the bedsheets revealed. What I don't quite understand is why the shirt was laundered and put back into service rather than being bagged and incinerated as a biological hazard.
The store was very accommodating and offered to bring a replacement to my office tomorrow but I ended up buying a shirt since the rental ones have the opacity of single-ply toilet tissue (maybe that was the secret use to which mine had been put) and create a corresponding image of the wearer. So, assuming I remember to pack the whole assortment of cufflinks, studs and other crap I will, if I am lucky, now only look a partial twat. I should blend in perfectly.
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
The trouble with renting a tux is that they only appear to be rented out for two occasions:
- Wedding parties, where it is the role of the wearer to get as drunk as possible and attempt to shag a bridesmaid.
- Prom night, where it is the job of the wearer to attempt to get drunk and deflower his date.
The common themes seem to be drink and attempted sex, and this always seems to be reflected in the quality of the rental wear, leaving it looking like something in which you might bury an old tramp, if you needed to make him look sort of presentable for the funeral while saving as much money as possible for something more interesting.
Still, this time I expected things might be a little better. For a start, there was an extensive range of suit options. Admittedly most of them would leave you looking like a cross between a homosexual nightclub act and a pimp, but that's always your prerogative. The whole ensemble was also available as a package including the nasty patent leather shoes and a choice of shirt, tie and vest (waistcoat) options. (Don't rent a cummerbund unless you want to look like a cunt; even James Bond couldn't carry that one off.) So I went in last week and ordered all the stuff, making sure that I tried as far as possible to go for a more conservative "club bouncer" look rather than the "cheap lounge singer" image. And today I got to go back in and try all the shit on.
Credit where it's due - the sizes were all about right, and the trousers and jacket didn't look bad (although I resisted the obvious temptation to give them a once-over DNA check with a blacklight). The shirt, however, was a different story. You know those vet shows on TV - the ones where the caring vet is on his way to a grand dinner-dance when he gets an urgent call to go an tend to Farmer Smith's prize cow who is struggling through calving? He's there in the cow-byre, up to his knees in straw and shit with his dinner jacket hung on a nail and his sleeves rolled up. There's a metal pail of water next to him and he has his arm shoulder-deep in the cow's nether regions. It's all blood, shit and afterbirth as he delivers the calf and everyone cheers in relief. Well, the shirt he was wearing was the one they gave me today.
I could only guess at the real story. The stains on the cuff were pretty extensive, and I don't think beer could have been the cause (after all the beer round here's practically water anyway). My working assumption is that either the prom date or the bridesmaid was on the blob at the time of the last wearing, leading to a messy encounter in the dark and much distress when the light was turned on and the bedsheets revealed. What I don't quite understand is why the shirt was laundered and put back into service rather than being bagged and incinerated as a biological hazard.
The store was very accommodating and offered to bring a replacement to my office tomorrow but I ended up buying a shirt since the rental ones have the opacity of single-ply toilet tissue (maybe that was the secret use to which mine had been put) and create a corresponding image of the wearer. So, assuming I remember to pack the whole assortment of cufflinks, studs and other crap I will, if I am lucky, now only look a partial twat. I should blend in perfectly.
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
6:21 PM
4 Comments:
You should have rented a kilt suit. You would look 100% smarter, you would be different to all the other "cunts" and all the bridesmaids and prom girls would be gagging to shag you. Wimmin love the kilt, trust me.
Agreed - the kilt is a good look and a guaranteed pulling tool. However it's pretty much expected that the wearer will honor the tradition of "nothing underneath". As cold as it is in Detroit in January there could be shrinkage. As Billy Connolly put it "scrotum like half a walnut".
I don't think I have any Scottish ancestry (although I'm pretty much a mongrel so who knows what my ancestry is) but Mrs.Bison is part-Scottish. Does that get me the right to wear a kilt on such occasions?
Of course it does, even Prince Charles wears the kilt on occasion and he is as English as they come.
And lets face it, every American in the world claims to have either Irish or Scottish roots somewhere.
You're right about the American thing, which is why I don't automatically claim the right to wear the tartan. Once you've seen ten thousand fat wankers in comedy shamrock hats, all convinced that they're one generation from the survivors of the potato famine, to be sure, and all drinking pissy beer dyed green it can make you somewhat cynical...
Next year I'm going to do it though because Mrs.Bison says I look like a bouncer in this outfit.
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