If you know anything about me, you know I have an individual sense of style. You see, I’m creative: I can take a little and stretch that shit. Now, I’m not the shopping type: I don’t have the patience to go into some damn store and try to match a pair of trousers with some damn dress shirt—I’ve got more important shit to do. Plus if there’s one thing I know it’s that the people who make the clothes you wear have a plan! They’ll make the collars on your shirts long as fuck and tell you that’s what everyone is wearing, and then six months later they’ll come out with some stingy ass little collars and tell you your long ass, hang-gliding collars are “out,” leaving your ass stuck with a closet full of Goodwill shit and a camera full of “What the fuck was I wearing!” photos!
No, I don’t shop, I acquire. A free t-shirt or a lost-and-found blazer here, a pair of sneakers hanging from a telephone wire there. Oh, hell yeah, I’ll climb a telephone pole for a pair of Jordans, are you kidding me? I wish some dumb ass kid would throw more stuff up there, a fucking iPad, a book bag full of book bags—hell, if you’re gonna throw away valuable shit like that, I’ll be there to acquire it.
Now, as for, as they say in the white world, “acquisitions,” you have to be open to what the market offers you. It ain’t like shopping on Amazon; acquisitions come at you like great stock tips—you overhear it. You overhear someone at some fancy, seven-dollar coffee shop suggest you buy orange futures. Now, you don’t know what the fuck an orange future is or what people do with them, but you got that tip and you buy it, and usually tips like that pay off. Well, fashion acquisitions work the same way: You’re at a bodega (for the whitely impaired, think “specialty market,” only a bodega’s specialties are old bread, dirty sandwiches, and lottery tickets), and someone says, “Maaaaaan, there’s some lady down the block throwing her old man’s shit out the window!” See, now that’s a tip that you better get on quickly if you really want to take advantage of it! So you go down the block and you scan the situation and you see drawers and t-shirts and run-of-the-mill shit, shit nobody wants. But then you see it, lying there by a hydrant, a poncho, a damn Clint Eastwood–looking ass poncho—now that’s a valuable acquisition.
Why would a poncho catch my eye? you say. Because that shit is unique! That’s the type of shit you make a fashion statement in! I mean, think of the damn term “Fashion Statement”! At the core is “statement,” and statement means to say something! You’re gonna tell me that if you walked into a bank trying to get a loan wearing that damn poncho, you’re gonna tell me that’s not making a statement?!?! Or showing up for a meeting with your kid’s teacher, one of them meetings where the teacher is gonna tell you about your bad ass kid? You think that teacher isn’t gonna think twice about saying some ridiculous shit about your kid!?! Especially if you squint your eyes at her ass like Clint Eastwood did in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, For a Few Dollars More, Dirty Harry, oh and I think he did a movie with a monkey, yeah Every Which Way but Loose, he squinted his ass in that movie, too. By the way, either the sunlight is always in that man’s face or he needs some damn glasses.
But look here, don’t get crazy with your statements. You don’t ever want to get caught in a nightclub wearing pajamas. And you know the type of onesie pajamas I mean, the Christmas Carol shit with the dumb ass nightcap and the two-button trap door on the ass for lazy muthafuckas who don’t want to take off their pajamas to take a shit. You show up looking like that thinking you’re giving off a casual bedroom look, but instead you just look like you’re a stupid ass sleepy muthafucka who should be home lying in bed drooling with a bunch of them cartoon ZZZZs coming out of your mouth, counting some dumb ass sheep. Which, by the way, I never understood why counting sheep was supposed to be some relaxing thing to make you go to sleep. Have you ever been around a sheep? They shit everywhere! They walk and shit, like elephants at the circus—they can’t control it.
Why would you want some loose bowel ass animal jumping over your head while you’re sleeping?
How is that relaxing?