It was a parade of white pants in the club last night. Patti Stanger filled me in on the reason: “Labor day is the last day of the year to wear white pants.” Interesting. White pants don’t look good on men—not even on Don Johnson. I surveyed a few bystanders and they agreed with me. Still, before leaving their homes, each of these men stood in front of full length mirrors and said, “Damn, I look good.” Silly boys.
One fellow had his pulled up so high I’m positive his belt was chafing his nipples. I could see another ding-dong’s ding-dong through his sheer, white pants. Maybe he was hoping some ladies would feed him peanuts. Most of the guys wore Tommy shirts along with white loafers. Had I died and gone to Bravo TV?
You know who can wear white pants? Black men. In fact, black men can wear just about anything, including pink, bright yellow, and shades of Kardashian. Must be nice. I’m stuck with shades of blue, brown, and black.
I was making the moves on a lovely female specimen and those white pantsians were listening in and hating on me. Fuckers. Patti always says it’s important to engage the target with questions instead of boring them with statements. So, I did.
“What part of town do you live in? What do you do? What’s your preferred type of food? Do you have a favorite restaurant? What do you do for fun? Can I smell your neck? (Scratch that.) Have any kids? How about pets? Where do you get your hair done? (Nope.) What are you reading, currently? Have any vacations upcoming? Want to make out? (Now, who’s silly?)”
Then she asked what I do. I usually say I’m a writer and change the subject. I rarely get away with it.
“What do you write?”
“What sort of humor?”
“Um … R-rated.”
“I mean, what subject?”
“Say, have you tried the short-rib here? It’s heavenly.”
“Fine. Relationship humor. I write about how frustrating it is to find love at my advanced age of seventy.”
“You’re not seventy.”
“Thank you for biting with the compliment I was fishing for.”
“Do you write for a magazine, newspaper, or what?”
“I could use another scotch on the rocks. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Yes, after you answer my question.”
“I write books.”
“Might I have read any of them?”
“Only if you have exceptional taste and never want to see me naked.”
Then one of those linen lunkheads interrupted and said I was lying.
“He’s just saying he’s an author thinking it will get him laid.”
“Really? That works? I’ve never had a woman part thigh at my revelation.”
“Then you should stop trying.”
“I can see that your strategy of wearing camel-ball white is highly effective, Elvis.”
“Dude, you’re wearing a baseball cap.”
“I have an unsightly skull, so I cover it. If you could see your saggy man-hams you’d probably have left the white pants on the golf course. Now, please go away before I spill something on you.”
White ain’t right.