Fashion Show

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For just sheer I-don-know-whatsis, you need look no further than your nearest fashion show. As the models prance up and down the catwalk, wearing the latest haute couture (French for, I think, “mint julep”), and men and women sit seriously in the audience jostling for a closer look as they scribble furiously on their pad of complimentary paper, you can’t help but think the same thing every other normal person in the world is thinking upon viewing such a sight:

“What?!?!”

For instance, just this last week, if you had been in Miami you could have attended this fashion show (http://www.miamiherald.com/508/index.html?media_id=101569441&genre_id=4235) or you could have made much better use of your time by attending the Miami Dolphins meaningless preseason game or, if you had really wanted to stretch and better yourself, just sat around throwing sand in your face.

The other thing that most people say, a derisive tone heavy in their voice, upon seeing a fashion show (on TV or the internet, as most of us are smart enough to not go to one in person), is something like, “No one’s going to wear that piece of [euphemism]!”

Why do we say it derisively? Aren’t we glad that we won’t see anyone dressed like that in public?

Of course, part of our derision is that some clothier somewhere, who probably attended an expensive school and majored in clothing design, is raking in big bucks creating these monstrosities. The clothes look like jokes, bad jokes, and we’re pretty sure we could do just as well on half the money. After all, what could it take? Two yards of material and a stapler?

And then there are the models. Some of them might be pretty if—

I bet you thought I was going to end that sentence by saying something like “if they would put on a pound or two, or a hundred.”

But, no. I think we all know that models have long been wastrels (I think that’s the word I’m looking for) and if you’ve ever watched “America’s Top Model” you know that the first thing they apparent lost when they went on their diet was brain cells.

What I was going to say was that some of them might be pretty if they would … smile.

I mean, really! They’re getting paid money (I don’t know if it’s big money, but in this economy, any money’s good money, right?) for wearing clothes and walking in a straight line and they do it as if they’re mad.

Or, maybe, they’re defiant. “Yes! I am emaciated and wearing hideous clothes but I double-doggone-gosh dare ya to make something of it!”

They have apparently been trained (with dog biscuits, maybe?) to act like this. And this is what really bugs me. See, if I were trying to sell something to you, I’d want the salesperson to try to give you the impression that owning my product would better your life in some way. “See how big the smile is that’s caused by my use of Sam’s Classic Underarm Shields?!? You can have this joy, too!”

But no! These designers know they have “created” (and I mean that in the most complimentary way I can pull off) works of “fashion” that practically demand snide remarks so they train their models not to try and make the dress or whatever look better, but worse! “OK Trixie,” you can almost hear the designer saying, “I want you to give the audience the impression that wearing this dress I have designed is a slightly less pleasant experience than having ants in your undergarments.”

Speaking of which, I need to go because there are a trail of ants making their way toward the remains of my lunch right now. Too bad it’s on my shirt.