I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter!

Archive for September, 2010

Why leggings are to blame for the destruction of our planet.

Leggings? Are not pants. I’m not entirely sure who to point my finger at in blame for this recent phenomenon. I’ve noticed an awful lot of females wearing leggings. As pants. Pants should cover your legs and hide your skin and keep everything within them protected and safe from the elements. Leggings don’t meet these criteria. They cover nothing, they hide nothing, and good luck convincing me they keep the elements out.

First of all, I thought leggings went out in the late 80s. I should rephrase that….I had HOPED that leggings went out in the late 80s. My memories of the late 80s are foggy at best, and I’d hoped that my memories of leggings would remain as such as a consequence. However, barring any sort of head trauma, the images I’m compiling at the age of 27 are guaranteed to be more vivid, and far more difficult to dismiss.

I remember owning leggings. When I was 7. I think 7 should be the maximum legging-wearing age allowed.

If you are of the age where you can cross the street without holding someone’s hand, you should put on pants.

I don’t care if you wear a long sweater that covers your ass, it isn’t covering your thighs. And when you sit down? The material becomes see through. I’m not sleeping with you, I don’t want to see your thighs. You know what would fix that? Putting on some damn pants.

I don’t want to see every crevice, nook and cranny. Frankly, I don’t think I deserve that kind of visual assault. I’m no saint, but I’m not entirely evil. Put that shit away.

It’s beyond me why leggings are even made in adult sizes. You think you look sexy in them, but you just look like you have no friends who love you. If you did, they would discreetly tell you that you can’t wear those out in public. I guarantee you that if one of my friends asked me, ‘Can I wear these? Should I buy these?’ they would immediately get the look of  ‘um, are you a fucking maniac? NO. Put them back and never think of them again.’

If you are such a narcissist that you need people to see the true outline of your legs, go ahead and put on a skirt (of reasonable length and clinginess PLEASE) and put on some tights. You wouldn’t wear tights as pants, and really, we’re arguing semantics between leggings and tights.

Truly, I cannot think of a practical application for leggings. Any acceptable situation for leggings could easily be handled by some tights. So why are we even creating these horrible fashion disasters? Why are we allowing women to suction fabric onto their cellulite-laden legs in the name of hipster trendiness? Why can’t these people just put on pants??  There is no place for leggings in this world. Yeah. I said that.

In FACT, since leggings are so obviously completely useless (based upon my flawless and incredibly thorough argument above), they are entirely a waste of resources. We are raising crops of cotton, employing underpaid labour, burning through fossil fuels to transport these things and for what? For this?

People. For the love of the earth, put on pants. We can’t keep killing our world and wasting our resources so that these people can believe that they are skinny enough to pull these off. They aren’t. And if they are, then they’re emaciated, and I don’t want to look at that either.

If you love Mother Earth, put your pants on. Thank you.


An Open Letter to Ottawa and it’s Citizens

Dearrrrrr Ottawa:

– A mullet is not an acceptable hairstyle north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Please get thee to a fucking salon.

– Oui is pronounced ‘wee’, not ‘way’. You all sound like ducks. You claim to speak French, but you speak Quebecois. It’s an ugly language.

– Potholes happen. I’m not sure where this group phobia comes from, but you are all terrified to drive through them. You swerve, you brake, you slow down to 2 km/hour to avoid them. You all drive shitty cars, why are you slowing down as though you are terrified to hurt them? You’re in a 1993 Toyota…..GO! You can’t hurt it, it’s already dead.

– Speaking of driving, I can guarantee you that your car goes faster than 40 km/hour. You wouldn’t know that, since none of you ever drive any faster than that, even on roads with a limit of 80, but I assure you it does. You should try it out sometime. It will save me having to kill you, and/or me giving myself a stroke due to the rapid increase of blood pressure I experience every time I drive behind one of you at 40, as we pass a speed limit sign stating 70 km/hr.

– Cashiers don’t care about your life story. Stop speaking. Pay them, and leave. Why you all insist on telling everyone everything that has happened to you today and your thoughts on all of those occurrences is beyond me, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop. I don’t want to spend my day waiting in line behind you.

– Why does every english sign have a french counterpart, but not every french sign has an english counterpart? Why??

– Stop complaining about ‘downtown traffic’. Just. Stop. You know not of what you speak.

– You have a really messed up idea about what a bus stop is. It is a sign erected on a street, indicating to potential bus riders that if they stand there, the bus will stop and allow them to board. In Ottawa though, it’s just a sign. The bus drivers may or may not heed the whole ‘stopping’ part. I should NOT have to flag you down like a fucking taxi just to get you to stop. It’s a bus stop. STOP.

– Why are you all so directionally disabled? When I give you the address of my workplace for your appointment, that should be the end of the convo. But you ask for detailed directions. You ask where parking is. You ask what the inside of the lobby looks like so that you’ll know you’re in the right place. It’s called Google Maps, you idiots! Or, failing that, a phonebook. They have maps. FIGURE IT OUT. I hate hate hate taking 10 minutes to explain directions to you, then having you call later from your cell, all confused cuz you weren’t even fucking listening.

– I will give you credit for one thing: I really love your readily accessible poutine. It’s everywhere. And even though I rarely partake in it, I like knowing it’s there if I ever need it.

That’s all. If you could just please stop telling me that Ottawa will grow on me, that’d be great. You know what else ‘grows on you’? Fungus. Mmmmhmmmmm. Think about it.

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