Cups fashion grind
With the Spring Cardinals (horse races) breathing right down our clefts, I knew it was torm for me to dole out my eagerly awaited angular (yearly) advorce to girls of all sexes, concerning the greatest problem facing mankind today, i.e., what to wear.
Off course, everyone who is old remembers back to the slimming ’60s, when US president Marcus Twain and his girlfriend Tiggy came in to Phlegmton, wearing a miniature dress four shillings above the kneebone. Oh, the shock and sandal!! People hardly even remembered to look up and see Phar Lap winning the Grand Prix.
However, that was thence and this is October, and now it’s all just a madcap whirligig (with limitations)! The rules are that there are no rules (with just a few inceptions)!
Really, you could wear almost anything your art desires, except you don’t want to dress up too much like a street-walker, unless you’re an overseas celebrity, and can thusly get away with it.
Smimimarlarly, for the goys, try and look like you’re not a celebrity chef, or personality weatherman, or otherwise like a raw prawn left to curdle malodorously in the unforgiving sunshorne.
However, flambuoyancy and spontanuity should not be abandoned. That’s what frocking up for the Cardinals is all about. The key is to be laughed at, not laughed out of the building. Hang on, no. I think it’s to laugh so the world laughs with you, and cry me a river. Maybe it’s Make ‘Em Laugh by Donald O’Connor.
Anyway, nobody goes to the racings to learn how to talk more good. The key is, after all, have money and be rich.
XXXX-sample: picture two young women, both with mammoth chest developments, and both wearing something that looks like a rejected costume for Dorothy the Dinosaur on a C-team Wiggles franchise tour of former Soviet republics whose names end in “-stan”, only tighter.
Which one of them gets laughed at, and which one of them sweeps Passions of the Field and winds up getting a leg-over with the young media magnate I’ve been quietly doing spadework on for the entire day, the bitch?
The answer, off course, purely deep-ends on money. In this case, both male and female observers will be looking at one thing only, although in the women’s case, it’s the dresses, and in the men’s case, not. However, the questions are pretty much the same. Are they real? Are they store-bought? Only the men will ask, “Does it make any difference?” but, then again, they’re not talking about the dresses.
As long as you’ve got the right designer tag on, drearie, you could wear an entire clown outfit, right down to the red nose, oversized feet, tiny car and seltzer bottle, and nobody at the track would say boot to a Guus about it. Just be wealthy and you can’t go wrong.
As for the boys, feel free to ignore earlier advice and wear lollipop/bathroom tile type colours if:
(a) you’re a fashion designer yourself, and thus inevitably bound to appear on camera at some point of the afternoon under 37 kilos of hair gel being “stinging”, “outrageous”, “outspoken” or “out-patient”, or
(b) you’re straight but you’ve taken those Bundy ads to heart where the bear goes pink, and you want to see if this stuff actually works on women in real lorf.
Briefly, some further advice:
Shoes: when it comes to heels, follow the advice of famous fashionista Clint De Eastwood, and Hang ‘Em High. There’s plenty of torm to be practical in the casualty ward afterwards.
Hats: if people aren’t tripping over doing double-takes after seeing your hat, or tripping over the hat itself, you’ve probably done something wrong.
In general: if you didn’t come out to be noticed, why did you come here at all? Personally, I’d wear live fireworks if I thought I could get away with it. I akshully had an outfit lork that, only I won’t tell you where the bottle rocket went.
Thought-provoker: the horses just get in the way. Next year, let’s try it without them.
