Oh, am I causing a scene? Is this too much? Maybe you’re fine with the absolute bare minimum of quality when it comes to your wardrobe. Maybe not looking like a total pile of dogshit isn’t a priority for you. Well, some of us give a damn, and I happen to prefer a more form-fitting, European cut on my tailored outerwear. What’s the big fucking deal?
First of all, the goddamn armholes on anything less than a bespoke jacket are obscenely low. Every time I raise my fucking arms I look like a fucking flying squirrel. Not to mention the unsightly bunching about the neck and shoulders. It’s some serious low-rent bullshit, my friend. And, quite honestly, I don’t want to live in a world where that kind of inattention to detail is tolerated. Do you? I don’t.
Second of all, and I realize this doesn’t have anything to do with the fit, but the mutherfucking buttons don’t even work. Did you hear what I just said? Grown-ass motherfuckers are walking around with fake fucking buttons. Like a costume. Like they’re a shitty actor in a shitty play and they’re playing the character of some prick who thinks he’s not crazy but he definitely is because he’s wearing a horrendous jacket with obscenely low armholes and FAKE FUCKING BUTTONS.
And what’s the wack-ass horeshit on this wack-ass lapel that’s peaked when any asshole off the street knows it ought to be notched? This sewn-up little faux slit or whatever the fuck it is? Are you fucking shitting me right now, dude? How the fuck am I supposed to get a goddamn boutonniere in that? Don’t even talk to me about watch fobs. That shit’s out of the question.
Pretend you’re a gentleman for five fucking seconds, would you?
You think this is the first time I’ve had to have this conversation? You think you’re the first person to tell me, “Well, sir, what you’re requesting is going to be quite a bit more expensive. Perhaps I can interest you in a less costly, off-the-rack blazer?”
No, sir, you most certainly cannot interest me in an off-the-rack blazer. Perhaps I can interest you in fucking off? Because that’s an indignity, for both of us, that I would rather endure than standing on the stage of the world in one of your one-size-fits-all, fake-buttoned sartorial nightmares that’s still soaked with the sour stench of the last ignorant pig that tried it on.
So go get your fucking measuring tape. Go get your little pincushion. Make some fucking calls or whatever the fuck you need to do to make this happen. Because it WILL happen. I simply prefer it.