New Species Discovered
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This piece was passed around the internet. You may have seen it. I didn’t write any of that caption, but I can think of a few things I might have added if I had written it. But it helps me understand why the pants on this group of bipeds manage to stay on. I have a couple of grandsons who seem to be evolving in this direction.
This “beltless” thing originated in prisons, where prisoners aren’t allowed to wear belts. Being an “ex-con” is a status symbol for gangbangers, so the affliction seems to have spread to teenagers everywhere. The same with shoes minus shoe strings.
Even back in the ‘50s a lot of boys wore their pants low, but they became easy targets to be “pantsed” by other guys. It was easy. You snuck up behind one of these low-riders and used their pockets to drop their pants to their shoes. It was fun watching them hop around, trying to pull their pants back up while girls giggled and boys laughed. But today, pants are sometimes worn below the butt. I don’t want to speculate on the pathology of that particular aberration.
Then there are the tattoos…When I was in the army, guys would get tattoos, usually related to their military unit, a girlfriend’s name, or maybe a small cross. Pretty innocuous stuff. If I had come home with a tattoo on my arm my dad would have cut my arm off and my mother would have had the church women pray for me. (I had the world’s greatest parents so that’s obviously not true, but I know they wouldn’t have been happy.)
Today, even women look like walking comic strips in full color. Here in
when the sun finally comes out and clothes come off, it’s more fun looking at
the colorful pictures on a female body than the Inquirer and other rags on the
rack in the check-out line. Of course, it
depends on the body. Some bodies are
best not looked at regardless of the colorful pictures.
If I had the skill, I’d go into the tattoo removal business. In a few years, when a man’s chest tattoo begins to fold in on itself and a woman’s breast tattoo of a cute little red rose begins to look like a nuclear explosion and heads for her navel, I think the removal business will boom. Actually, after that description, I think I’ll pass on the tattoo removal business.
I must admit that my arms look like I’ve had a series of tattoos by Picasso, but these are just a result of bumping into things while on an aspirin regime. Some of these transitory bruises look like the old Rorschach ink blot tests - you can see whatever you can imagine in the shapes. One guy looked at my arm in shock, blessed me, and tried to pin money on me because he thought one of my bruises looked like the Virgin Mary. Now I wear long-sleeved shirts.
I’m doing my best to adjust to the brave new world around me, but the truth is that I feel like my passport ran out sometime in the ‘50s or ‘60s and I’m in an airport in a foreign country, smiling in feigned acceptance of their bizarre cultural traditions. The sad part is that it’s too late to catch a flight back to the sanity of the ‘50s. I think I’ll get an “I Like Ike” tattoo, a Lone Ranger mask, and a Green Hornet decoder ring. Those ancient esoteric symbols and artifacts might be considered "hip" - an archaic word which could be translated into today's vernacular as "cool", "awesome", "that be bad", or "whatever."