Grown Ups in Garanimals

So I’m on the sofa Sunday night, lamenting the end of February vacation and wondering how it can be that the jeans that fit me last week don’t fit me anymore. Is it possible that I really ate that much over vacation? Drank that much? Did the Chinese buffet put me over the edge? And when, exactly, did my butt turn into a booty?

Since I’d rather not think about it and I’m already hungry again having just left the Chinese buffet a scant half-hour ago, I try a diversionary tactic – I open up People magazine.

Yes, People magazine. When you’re sitting on the sofa all fat and depressed there is no better reading than People magazine. Well, all right, maybe the Star or In Touch, but such publications should be used sparingly and only in the direst of circumstances. Like if you’re going to be spending a few days in the hospital.

So, People magazine has a story this week about some director guy who got kicked off a plane because he is too fat to fit in the seat. I find this strangely ironic considering the ominous presence lurking right beneath me on the sofa, so I read the story.

Seems Mr. Director Guy originally bought two seats on the plane because he is both rich and fat, but then decided to cheap out and go stand-by. Unfortunately, one does not stand-by on a plane, one has to sit-by other people and, again unfortunately, Mr. Director Guy is of such a large variety of director that one seat does not provide sufficient space with which to contain him.

Should Mr. Director Guy have to buy two seats when he flies? Of course he should. He’s huge, gigantic, Ginormous. No one wants to sit next to someone who doesn’t have the common decency to stay in his or her own seat.

This is Kindergarten Manners 101. I have my bubble, you have your bubble. You keep your side boobs out of my personal space and I’ll keep my big booty out of yours. Seems an equitable arrangement.

But, I think People magazine has missed the real story here. The real story here has nothing to do with Mr. Director Guy’s excess self. It’s his clothes. His wardrobe. His big, Baby Huey, mentally ill toddler suit.

I do not understand what is going on with men and their clothes these days. I mean, Mr. Director Guy is not the first man/mentally ill toddler I’ve seen. But he’s a Director Guy! He’s a famous, Hollywood Director. What the hell is he thinking in his dungaree Man Capris, little skater-boi sneakers, oversized sports fanatic T-shirt, and New York Devils fanzie jacket?

He looks like Spanky from “The Little Rascals” only updated and super-sized with glasses and a full beard. All he needs is a beanie and a sidekick with a cowlick and a crush. Maybe that’s the look he’s going for. “Mentally Ill Toddler is so last year. It’s Super-Sized Spanky for spring!”

Apparently the airline would not let Mr. Director Guy on the plane because they seemed to think he posed a danger to others.

Well, duh! Just look at him!

Who would let this guy near a plane, let alone on the plane? Do overgrown, mentally ill toddlers get to fly alone? Don’t they need an escort? Or at least TSA clearance? Shouldn’t someone this deranged looking be on the terrorist watch list? I mean think of all the incendiary devices he could conceal within the folds of those Man Capris. For all the flight crew knew, he might have had Pixie Sticks packed with powdered explosives pasted into the crotch of his Power Rangers Underoos.

Mr. Director Guy is 39-years old. 39 years old! That’s pretty much middle age to you and me, yet he dresses like his mommy just matched the top and bottom purple gorillas together on the Garanimals rack. Is this what happens to fashion once you reach a certain weight? Is this all there is for the Big and Tall Man in the 21st century? What’s next, Onesies?  Rompers? Really, really big Looney Tunes overall shorts?

Another popular look for the adult American male is the Fisher Price Kid. You remember those little toys we all had when we were actual toddlers. Those Little People that lived in all those cool cribs: the awesome A-Frame, the hip Houseboat, the phat Farm with the door that mooed.

There’s one Fisher Price Kid in particular that seems to have inspired an entire generation of male fashionistas – that one punk-ass Kid with the freckles and angry eyebrows and his baseball cap all crooked on his head. That mo-fo Fisher Price Kid was so bad ass he could kill you. Literally. If you just so happened to put him in your mouth, you could choke on him, beeotches.

That particular Fisher Price Kid is long gone. Little People Land has no place for teeny-tiny wangstas and I don’t remember any teeny-tiny Section Eight Housing either.

And yet we get stuck with a fashion legacy of oversized, over-embellished baseball caps balanced askew on too many balding heads.

I think it’s safe to say if you’re old enough to open up a 401k you’re old enough to take off the cap. Or, at the very least, turn it around and peel off the gold sticker.