Retail Hell On Earth- Stores Need to Stock More Bras!
Yeah, I know. I kind of blew the mystery of this article right out the gate. I’ve even had running arguments with Roode and Tresckow about it. They don’t want “an article of chick shit” to dominate this week’s update. Or was it they didn’t want chick shit in FWTC at all? I guess it really doesn’t matter, because I’m doing what I want, anyway. Who’s gonna step up and try to stop me? I’ll go all Sinn Fein on your ass!
Oh, buck up, little camper. No one is going to shoot you in the head for not digging an article written about the trials and tribulations of the trials and tribulations that women face at the department store. Well, I wouldn’t shoot you in the head. I know plenty of people who are fully capable of sending jacketed metal crashing through skull. But, there will be no need here. Will there? Don’t make me find a need!
What is this thing about? I’m sorry. I’m on my second bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and I’m not sure where I put my jeans. That’s it! Jeans! Well, to be more specific, clothes. Where do we get clothes? Stores. Why do we go to stores? To shop for things we need/want. What makes it a good shopping experience? Finding something in that fashion pushing abattoir that’s at least your fucking size! Sound easy? Does it? Then you’re a dude. And, dude, you don’t know SHIT about clothes shopping atrocities. You fuckers get new clothes, maybe, three times in a decade. If one of those times you find that you have joined the fatty circus America has been running for the past 20 years no worries! Just look down. Yuppers, has your cute beer gut added on guest quarters? Shit, just root through the lower shelves of jeans in the men’s section. It’s like hitting the piñata dead on, every time and getting a maelstrom of relaxed carpenter’s jeans or a twelve pack of tightie whities. You swinging dicks are in and out of a store in 3 minutes.
That shit does not happen for women.
Don’t you even say that’s because we don’t know what we’re looking for. Don’t start preaching like Ben Affleck in Mallrats, “I have no respect for people with no shopping agenda.” Suck it, ya sack. I always go to the mall or department store knowing what it is I’m looking for. Sure, I may not have run a reconnaissance mission the night before to get the drop on the turtle neck to black “fuck me boots” ratio, but I know what I need, damn it. Alright, I may come back with extra. The men that tag along need to clamp it. It’s fucking hard for a girl to find exactly what she’s looking for, let alone the correct size.
So, women- join my fist shaking. Men, sit there and shut up. If you guys want to reap the rewards of the end result (little skirts and tight tops with knee high boots), then you’ll fucking grin and bear it. Don’t make me take out my Baroness costume again!
1. Jean sizes lie
You know, it must be nice for guys to use the S, M, L, XL system. That shit doesn’t really work for most women. Why? Because some fudge sack at every manufacture makes all their sizes just a little bit different than every other clothing manufacturer. A small in Lee’s may be a bit larger in Silver Tab. What’s that mean? Well, instead of just grabbing shit off the counter, we have to try EVERYTHING on. We don’t just go into the fitting room for an hour and a half to piss you off. Well, that’s not the whole reason. Frankly, women can’t fucking trust what the labels say. A small is not a small is not a small. No one in either gender is built identically, but clothing manufactures for guys seem to be able to generalize like it’s no body’s business. Women get shafted with the “Goldilocks Porridge” scenario. You have to pick what fits right the first time or you’re pretty much doomed to having a pair of jeans that strangle your ovaries or have enough room left over to rent out.
For shit’s sake, Consumer Reports actually conducted a study on the batshit craziness of jean sizes. Comparing the same style of jeans, they found a difference of 2 inches in the waist and an inch in length. THE SAME FUCKING STYLE! So, even if you know what size of a particular brand fits you, all bets are off if you start looking at another one. It’s the fucking wild west!
2. Blouse proportions suck
I’m small. I’m little. I’m mother-chucking teeny tiny. I make no apologies for it. I’m a wee 5′ 1″ and hover around 100 pounds. I’m a leprechaun. But, I’m a well proportioned leprechaun. Mama’s got a nice rack and a butt that doesn’t quit. There’s a problem though. Other women have bigger racks and small asses. Or, some have smaller boobs and gimungous hips. Any way you slice it, blouse shopping sucks. Why, you may ask Well, Calvin Klein doesn’t design a top for every boob-butt-hip-torso scenario. The same shirt that looks awesome on me will be utterly useless for a chick with a long torso. A blouse that said long torso chick can wear will make me look like I’m wearing a friggin smock. It’s hell finding the right blouse that, not only is the proper size, but suits your proportions. Many a time I fell in love with a top that looked great on the rack, but looked ridiculous on me. So, what does this mean come shopping time?
3. Jean sizes are cryptic (Yeah, I’m still stuck on jeans)
Again, I have to draw a comparison between guys and gals. Let’s say my brother wants to buy a new pair of jeans (presumably, because his old ones have literally ceased to exist). Well, shit cakes, it’s easy! If he (more likely, his wife) knows his waist and inseam measurements it’s a walk in the park. He goes into the mall, roots around for his size, and now has another pair of jeans he can wear until they disintegrate. He doesn’t even need to try them on. It’s a fucking love story.
Sometime ago, some sadistic fucker decided that it wasn’t proper for women’s jeans to show such personal information. The measurement of a chick’s inseam and waist were just too taboo. A gentleman never asks and a lady never tells. BULLSHIT! Thanks to all that mess, women are consigned to a living hell of distrusting their eyes and needing a goddamn Enigma Machine to decipher the top secret sizing code.
Guess what this all means, again.
4. Finding the right bra is a pain in the ass
No, finding a bra isn’t like finding a pair of underwear for a guy. Good ones don’t come in three packs and you just can’t guesstimate it. Our boobs need more than a bra from the drug store.
Firstly, there are no less than a million different types of braziers out there. There’s full cup, demi cup, padded, underwired, strapless, convertible…
No, not this kind of convertible
Finding the right bra is like finding the Ark of the Covenant for us. The difference being that the Ark is easier to find. The bitch of it is that, unlike blouses and jeans, not every store lets a girl charge back into the fitting room and try on some boobicle restraints. I guess I sort of understand that reasoning. They don’t let you try on underwear. But, fuck, it’s almost impossible to find a bra that fits you like Cinderella’s glass slipper.
Here’s a little know tidbit of trivia: bra sizes aren’t an exact science. As with other clothes, each brand will fit a girl differently. Buy one too big and your boobs are bouncing around in the cups. Buy one too small and you got yourself a designer vice grip. Women don’t screw around when it comes to breast support and comfort. Once we find a brand that fits like the proverbial glove, we don’t deviate. This usually means they cost more. Fuck it! It’s worth it to properly showcase the goods.
Oh yeah, guys. Being braless isn’t always sexy.
Posted on June 11, 2010, in Life Lessons, Observations and aggravations, Ren, Shopping, Society and tagged Ben Affleck, Clothing, Department store, Jesus, Mallrats, Michael Collins, Northern Ireland, Shopping. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.