It seems that Jude Law and the homeless man who shouts expletives on Queen Street and the mannequins at the Gap all have something in common this summer and it’s not something I can get behind, which is upsetting for me because behind Jude Law is a place I’d typically line up to be.
Yes, I know. Say what you will about receding hairlines and chest hair and nannies, but Jude Law will forever be Dickie Greenleaf for me. And it’s funny, that, because right now I am reading this (624 page!!) book called The Invisible Bridge on the subway and I swear, even though the main character is a Hungarian Jew who is new to 1939 Paris, I swear to you that its protagonist, who I can call nothing but Anders, even though his name is totally not Anders, is the talented Mr. Ripley and he spends his first night in Paris on the couch of a lovely party boy who IS JUDE LAW IN MY HEAD. I hope they never make a movie out of this because they’ll probably cast someone like Robert Pattinson in it and it will totally ruin it for me forever.
But back to the subject at hand: THE MANPRI.
They are pants that think they are shorts! They are shorts that think they are pants!
Why is this even happening? Are shorts really *that* short? Are pants really *that* long?
There is nothing un-Kevin Federline about this.
Oh sexy ankles! (said in my very best Long Duck Dong, of course)
The only thing that could possibly be worse are WHITE LINEN MANPRIS and I am absolutely terrified to even google it on account of the possible nightmares. Remember kids: friends don’t let friends wear manpris unless they are doing something where ankle exposure is super important, like, um, pedicures?
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