The voters have had their say and, unlike the Democratic Party, we even counted input from Michigan and Florida. Lots of great ideas and a few perfectly good ones were floated around and the general consensus seems to be that FCN and rFCN should blog about fashion for the rest of the week. Why a bunch of guys should choose this topic to write about and why "fashion" is such a pressing issue is as elusive to us as Meagan Fox's beauty, but we have never let lack of understanding keep us from expressing ourselves and we aren't about to start now. Fashion you proposed, fashion you voted and fashion it is.
I was on vacation in Indiana. The reason why my family chose this state over the plethora of others with better weather to spend a week of our leisure time eludes me at this moment, but I've heard it may have had something to do with friends. Regardless, we couldn't wait to get out of Indiana (even Gary is pretty bad, despite rampant rumors that the "town that knew me when" is "the only place that can light my face") so we packed ourselves into a car and drove across a slow moving and very dirty looking river into Ohio.
Once across, we found the only fun thing in Ohio: an amusement park full of nausea inducing rides and cotton candy (there's also an airplane museum, which is ironic given that the first thing to fly from Ohio was an export).
I don't remember too much of what happened at the amusement park but I did endure a very moist rendition of the "Submarine Adventure" which pretty much consisted of dousing a cart full of paying customers with frigid water a la Taylor Swift. Soaked to the skin and feeling about as proud as Kellie Pickler after a trivia quiz, I marched through the park looking for more thrills.
That's when fashion enters this story. See, I knew you were getting impatient; sometimes you have to wait through an elaborate set up and a few references to cute country crooners.
A normal looking guy who carried himself as if he thought he were buff walked up to me and said in his best Brady Quinn voice: "Were you eying my girlfriend?"
I looked at the newcomer with surprise. I'd never seen him before and I certainly didn't remember his girlfriend. "Who?"
"You passed a girl a minute ago...she was wearing a pink halter top. I don't like how you looked at her." The Quinn clone was trying to start a fight.
"Good sir," I answered, trying hard to avoid an English accent, "I've passed about twenty women in the last minute. It is quite possible-" My words were cut short by a clear image behind my questioner. Not twenty feet away was a young woman in the most hideous pink halter top I'd ever seen, and I've seen some pretty hideous halter tops. She wasn't particularly awful looking - in fact she was downright ordinary - but her poor fashion choice detracted from any of her natural good looks. When people looked toward her they didn't see a girl, they saw a bright pink top.
"What?" The Quinn clone had followed my gaze and was seething.
"Look mister," I said, growing some nerve, "you are a pretty dodgy boyfriend, you know that? First, you can't stand anyone looking sideways at your girl when you should view it as a big compliment. You mitigate your own manhood in an overzealous effort to stand up for her and upset the tenuous equanimity of others (me specifically) in the process. Second - don't interrupt me - second, you are a terrible boyfriend for not getting your girl something better to wear. Subpar is the nicest adjective I can think of to describe the outfit and even that doesn't begin to approach the horrendous attire she has chosen and you have allowed, by silent consent or otherwise. The fact that she is halfway good looking does nothing to vitiate her abysmal attire."
Only when I'd finished my monologue did I realize that the drop zone siren had sounded over my words and rendered my remonstrations incomprehensible. My friend who was standing next me shook her head as a warning and I rethought my retort.
"Look man, I didn't look at your girl. If I did, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. Hey, have a cotton candy on me..." This time my words were heard loud and clear. My new version worked wonders as my accuser's face transformed and he eagerly grabbed the Lincoln I extended his way.
"Hey, no hard feelings bro." He took the money and left, leaving me wet, cold, scarred by the image of his terribly dressed girlfriend and in Ohio. I was out five bucks, but I had a story worth a lot more. And maybe, just maybe, those few dollars would go toward improving the wardrobe of that poor girl.