Acropolis Blue Plaid Flannel Shirt, J. Crew, $70, JCrew.com.
I wouldn’t call myself a thief PER SE. I believe “Foster Parent” is a title most fitting of my actions, those being graciously offering a warm body to those sad and not-too-often worn items of clothing that within the depths of your heinously oversaturated closet have long been forgotten. My most recent acquisition was that of a flannel shirt, appropriated after New York’s GREATEST Turkey Bacon Chef (he really has a way with that microwave of his) had gone off to work and left me struggling to put on pants, a symbolic act intended to signify the start of another New York morning.
Minutes before leaving he crushed me with the most fearsome rain of rancid farts you have ever smelled, and explained to me why I should be happy that his deafening blows bore him good health, “SBDs means you got a loose butthole, and ma butthole AIN’T loose!” I rightly debated whether I should face the chilly two-block walk to the Subway in nothing more than a Madewell tank, or snipe somethin’ from Booty Blaster. Seeing as how he makes sure that every door in his apartment is closed off from one another so as not to mix different room’s air fresheners, I thought I’d be safe to risk it this one time.
“Great flannel! Where’d you get it?!” “Oh, it’s not mine, check the tag.” “Men’s Fitted Medium? Cavorting with hobbits again Danielle?” The Rainmaker happens to be a 6’ 1” fine lookin’ piece a man meat, so I could take such a remark to mean that I am in danger of becoming morbidly obese. BUT seeing as that it’s Friday, I’ll spin it as a “D JUST BEIN’ D!” meaning: I make everything look damn good.