Tacky Khakis--A Short Interlude

I don’t like khakis. I don’t like how they look, I don’t like how they feel, and I don’t like what they say about American culture. More than just another ugly pant, the khaki should be understood as representative of our contemporary consumerist “we-can-have-it-all-as-long-as-it’s-baggy-and-stupid” ethos. Put simply, khakis are low-brow American smugness magically transformed into beigish fabric. “Here I am, rockin’ the cul-de-sac/Applebee’s/Home Depot/Accounts Receivable Department,” khakis say, in the whimpery overfed voice of guys who live to call in to the Rush Limbaugh show, “Please spill mustard and toddler vomit on me!”

Call me an ass, but I refuse to accept the prevailing wisdom that states that there exists a level of formality between utter casualness and the need to wear fancy pants. I don’t believe in “business casual”. If an affair is informal enough for you to show up in flesh-colored quasi-dungarees, it’s casual enough for you to show up in jeans, in shorts, or in jean shorts with ripped off bits of fringy stuff dangling from the hem. I can’t help it. This is the way I feel.

Khakis=suck. Tonight, I have no more to say.