Slathering sun-tan lotion on every time you step out of doors no longer qualifies as paranoia; now it’s survival.
Target Frisbee is a pastime, not a sport, regardless of how many suckers you can convince to join you in the practice of trekking out to rolling parkland out in the middle of nowhere to fling miniature Frisbees at baskets. If this is something you enjoy doing, don’t you dare think of yourself as the next link in the sport-activity evolutionary chart after golf.
Men Without Shirts
Men, keep your shirts on, please. Sure, God granted you a fabulous musculature and iron pectorals and a thick coat of chest hair, but all that wanton manliness was made for His pleasure, your pleasure, and the pleasure of your life mate. Nobody else is interested. And while we’re talking about things you should keep to yourselves, those excuses for shirt-doffing can stay stuffed in your sweaty back pocket. If you decided to take a three-mile walk on a sweltering afternoon, you knew what you were getting into, unless you just flew in from the Yucatan.
Can I borrow a piece of gum?
Dumb Hip-Hop Bangers Blaring From Convertibles
The frequency of dumb hip-hop bangers blaring from convertibles seems, sadly, to be on the decline—which may say more about where I live than about the listening habits of convertible drivers or the quality of dumb hip-hop bangers, relative to dumb hip-hop bangers of years prior.
Ass-Cleavage On Bicyclers
It’s been fun, over the years, to snicker at serious bicyclers in spandex bodysuits. “Who does that idiot think he is, Lance Armstrong?” But the gratuitous amount of male ass-cleavage in display from cyclers this year has me seriously re-thinking my stance on this.
The main thing with flip-flops is this: if you’ve been on a commercial airplane lately, you know that you have to take your footwear off in order to clear security prior to boarding. And because none of those who ever-so-lazily wear flip-flops all summer long—exploiting a season-long lapse in common standards of decorum—bother to trade up to sneakers at the airport, the security pass-through area becomes a potential bad-hygiene zone from which there is no escape, particularly if one works on the security staff. The terrorists are winning, and they aren’t even aware of it. And flip-flop wearers, I’ve observed, are more likely than non-flip-flop wearers to flaunt the “no shirt, no shoes, no service” maxim recognized by most eateries.