Read part 1 here.
Here’s the thing:
I’m not sure what the difference is between flannel and, like, just a cotton shirt.
Flannel’s softer and cushier, right? Maybe?
How could someone get into their 30s without knowing the difference between flannel and cotton? Well, until a few years ago, I referred to broccoli as “those tree-looking little fuckers.” It made dinner time in my house interesting when I was a kid.
I THINK this is just a cotton button-up shirt*.
But you Americans call them button-DOWN shirts, right? The fuck is that about? I button it up when I put it on. UNbutton-down makes sense.
Your entire country baffles me.
As if on cue, iTunes just started playing Simon & Garfunkel’s “America.”
As for the Mii sit-chee-ay-shun, I say delete those suckas the minute you hand the boy cab fare and send him on his way.
A Mii is a sacred trust, signifying the union between two people. The moment the union is done…
Of course I have been known to delete people from my gchat list for the minorest of things. I don’t like your tone in an e-mail? Gone. You take too long to reply to an e-mail? Zap. You don’t reply to an e-mail at all?
Our families go to war.
I don’t have a Wii. Everyone I know seems to have one, but the last thing I need in the world is something else to waste time with. Truly. You can hand me a ball of yarn and I can play with it for three hours. I’m like a kitten that way.
I’m also like a kitten in that I’ll crawl around in circles on your lap until I find the perfect comfy position. (Not YOUR lap specifically. You know what I mean.)
Plus I chew on lamp cords.
Is there any way you can control the activities of the little Mii men when your Wii starts up? Can you make them fight for your forgiveness? Or have them make out for your amusement?
‘Cause I think that’d be pretty nifty.
With downright warm regards,
Flannel is indeed softer and cushier. Here’s a fun experiment you could try: light yourself on fire while wearing both (not at the same time) and whichever one makes your skin melt off faster is probably the flannel one.
While some Americans may call them button-downs, those of us who spent our formative years whoring ourselves out at $5.25 an hour for Abercrombie & Fitch know the real term for these shirts is “oxford”.
You’ll be pleased to know that yesterday I lit some candles, put on Mariah Carey’s Heartbreaker and deleted each and every one of those lingering Miis.
My family went to war once. I fell in love with some broke scallywag who ended up drinking poison because he thought I had stabbed myself in-
Oh my god, Peter, I have to tell you something.
I’m supposed to be going swimming several times a week as part of the therapy process for my back. I went yesterday and afterwards, I jumped in the shower to rinse off all the little kid pee/vomit/fecal matter/old people sweat. The showers at this pool are side by side, with dividers, and there is this long sort of trough thing that runs though all of them, bringing all the dirty water down the drain. If you use the shower closest to the drain, you get to watch everyone else’s dirty suds flowing past your feet. I was in the third shower, washing the chlorine out of my hair when I looked down at the trough water and it was yellow. Somebody was peeing in the shower.
It was awful.
I hope you’re having a wonderful day and please stop chewing on that lamp cord.
———-[*Back story on THE SHIRT: At some point in November or December, every year, I get an email from my mother and/or sister.
“What do you want for Christmas? You are impossible to buy for. And, frankly, kind of a pain in the ass.”
Fine, they don’t type the last part. But they say it with their eyes.
This year it was my sister.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Clothes and junk?”
“Can you be more specific?”
But then I figured I could at least put in some effort. So I turned to Jenn. She has somehow become my go-to person for things I am too inept/self-involved/lazy to figure out for myself. Pity her.
I sent a “Hiiii, Jennnnnn. Have I told you how great you look today?” e-mail. I told her the situation and asked for some guidance. And she said yes because she adores me. (Read: She so badly wanted to procrastinate and was looking for anything close to an excuse.)
Not long after, she sent me some e-mails with approximately 575 links to shirts and sweaters that she thought a Peter should be wearing.
574 of them were awesome and exactly the things I would pick out for myself — if I had any fashion sense and the ambition to shop.
One might have been a little too… delightful. Especially when you consider the rugged, bad-ass image I am projecting.
In my head.
So I forwarded Jenn’s links to my sister and this shirt was one of the things I got.
Next week… the story of these boxer briefs!