In times like these, you wish you could push some sort of instant vengeance button, a biblical plague button, a button that would unleash the locusts, the frogs, the backwoods sodomites, a button that would wreak instantaneous karmic suffering upon the backwards-hat jackass who has just drive-by-fagged you. I reached for that button, but all I found was my middle finger.
When I was seven, my friend's creepy evangelical dad told me, "Never seek vengeance. Silence is like feeding your enemies burning hot coals."
There's an idea. I should just feed my enemies burning hot coals. Maybe this Christianity thing isn't so bad after all. That is probably the reason why religion exists in the first place: the promise that the drive-by-fag artist will get his come-up-ins.
Anyway, I flipped the guy off and took my faggy monkey pictures.
My wardrobe these days is all Mossimo all the time. I would be considered unhip if people didn't already infer that at first glance.
Maybe I'm just blind from reading so many of those blurry Mossimo t-shirts in the mid-90s, but what's there not to love about Mossimo? From the arbitrarily preppy lion insignia to the athletic fit that lets everyone know that yes, I do fifteen push-ups every morning - as a world-weary, formerly bearded man who is simply unwilling to buy decent clothes, a six-dollar pair of cicada-damaged Mossimo jeans is like a breath of fresh, Laotian sweatshop air. Somewhere, Giovanni Mossimo himself is sitting in a California caviar bar, chortling a mighty Italian chortle at the thought that his little fledgling fashion line - the one Versace said was too brash, too wild, too sexy to succeed - is now the envy of the clearance aisle at Target.
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