Just:
One
Lyrics over the jump. Reason Two is here.
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Daily Archives: March 17, 2007
Kiss me, I’m Reebok St. Patrick’s Day Classic Sneaker
Yes, they are real. Reebok St. Patrick’s Day Classics. Green, with white trim, shamrocks, and “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” on the heel cup.
And a goddam Union Jack on the label. Use orange laces on these buggers and you could start another civil war right there on the sidewalk. If you check out the other model through the link above, you’ll see that the Orangemen are also well-represented. I can’t wait to see that in an updated version of West Side Story.
A sneaker you can wear once a year. The fashion world has reached its apotheosis, people; here is where it ends. Here, Karl Lagerfeld swallows his own tail and vanishes in a puff of brimstone.
Besides, they’re Reebok: they’re crap. Soft, pretty crap, but it’s a good thing they’re only wearable one day a year, because that’s the only way Reeboks would last more than one year anyway.
I’m wondering, looking at these, if they were designed by a Dublin dominatrix who, being new to the business, hadn’t really gotten the hang of the “Kiss my feet” thing yet.
“Yo P.Paddy, is it me feets ye’d be kissin?” Heel, boy.
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Buy this damn thing
I hear that I’m allowed one discreet text link to an item that’s delegated its power to the Capitalist Conspiracy, ie something for sale, so here it is.
For the love of god, would you click through and purchase that fucker already? Vicus is going to whine uncontrollably until everyone on Earth has at least one copy, and god forbid he get maudlin about it and start with the weepy Sixties folk tunes. If the book doesn’t sell out, don’t blame me if the blogosphere is subjected to nothing but recitals of bloody Kumbiyah in creaky and wistful Donovan style for the next six straight months.
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what not to wear…and when not to wear it
This. Ever.
Note to self:
You know that look, that one where you’re running late and have to go out and do some boring errands, so you grab a pair of leggings but not the stirrup pants because you do, after all, have some standards, and you throw your sister’s hand-me-down cotton cableknit “fat” sweater on overtop of that and you lace up your most broken-down pair of sneakers and you reach for your Dad’s Cowichan sweater because it’s cosy, waterproof, and big enough to go over the ever-so-slightly-massive sweater, but only if you pick hem of the sweater up all around and tuck it into a sort of blob out front of you and zip the jacket up before the sweater mass makes a break for it?
You know that look?
Remember to wear that the next time you want someone to give you their seat on the bus in the mistaken belief that the little bundle of joy is due any second.
No reason I know that works…
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quiz: what kind of meat are you?
Oh my. While I was going to quarrel with the findings here on general principles, that last line is almost scarily accurate, give or take six inches.
You Are Chicken |
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raincoaster 