Anyway, I digressed before I even began. That's a talent, by the way, it's like taking a detour before you even start your car. Here's my story.
Regular readers of my blog know that I am heavy into social responsibility. I have discussed serious issues that are plaguing our country, such as how our women are causing men to become gay, why wearing zadzadama bhrugwas and swigging beers is not acceptable feminine behaviour in the New Zimbabwe, and why all intelligent Africans should make an effort to never miss a second of Big Brother Africa.
In keeping with my calling, I have since written to COPAC with my own issues that I feel should without fail be included in the new constitution they are drafting. For those not in the know COPAC stands for Constitution-makers of the Parliamentary Committee Caucus. Or something like that, I don’t have the details and don’t give a shit so don’t correct me. One of my issues is outlined below.
I partied a great deal last year, primarily in Zimbabwe but also in a few other countries. The one thing I couldn’t get over when I went out at home is the average Zimbabwean’s embarrassing lack of style. It is now driving me fucking insane and I think this issue needs to be brought to the attention of our President because, love him or hate him, that guy is without doubt the best-dressed 88 year-old in the history of the planet. In fact, if presidential style were a country’s economic prosperity, we would be China, using Obama’s testicles as stress balls every time our finance minister reports that our foreign reserves have grown by another trillion dollars and we don’t have anywhere to put it. But alas, it is not, and we are not, hence we find ourselves with a dapper president desperately courting anyone who might be able to give us a couple of billion dollars in exchange for anything, anything at all they want in his country (except the Presidential post, we’ll wear Guangzhou-grade third-hand underwear before we give that up, screw you, Imperialist scum!).
I find Zimbabweans are not incapable of being stylish, but are simply too damn lazy to make themselves look good. This practice has to stop, and since the grooming and clothing choices being made by some amongst us are bordering on criminal, I am proposing that we just go all the way and put in place a legal framework to discourage and heavily punish those who disregard basic rules of style.
Men in Zimbabwe are the prime culprits in this regard. It’s disrespectful to our women for us to walk around dressed the way some of us do. Seriously, when did flip-flops become the default footwear for everywhere that is not work? I don’t care whether they’re made by Bata or Gucci, you can’t wear flip-flops to the club, what the fuck is wrong with you? No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend, you look like a loser.
Below are my top suggestions for Zimbabwean men not wishing to get arrested when my proposal is adopted and signed into law. Before you start bitching and moaning about how some people don’t have money to buy expensive clothes, please note that I am speaking here of simple style and grooming, not the latest fashion or designer brands. I have met some girls who were beautifully put together head to toe in flea market clothing. Style has nothing to do with money, so do me a favour: shut up and pay attention.
1. It’s lovely that you support Arsenal/Man U/Liverpool/Whoever, but that doesn’t give you the right to think your soccer jersey is appropriate attire for every occasion. Yes in your mind it’s fucking awesome that they were able to fit “MAZVIMBAKUPA” on the back of your jersey, but dude, as surprising as this may be, the rest of us don’t give a shit about your little narcissistic achievement. Stop wearing soccer jerseys every damn weekend and introduce some variety into your casual wardrobe you lazy fuck.
2. Learn how to tie a tie: here’s a simple rule: if you are over 16 and can’t tie your tie so that it doesn’t end above your navel or below your crotch, use it to hang yourself instead because God never meant for you to live to this age. Your tie is supposed to stop just above your belt buckle. It’s not rocket science, but you’d be amazed how many guys I see in town with a little baby tie peeking out from just under their collar, or a long one snaking down between thighs like a hard-on concealer. Learn to do it right or don’t wear a tie at all.
3. Dress for your damn weight: this means no muscle tops or tight t-shirts if you are skinny or have a beer belly. The number of pot bellies on display at braais, in pubs and in clubs across this country is astonishing. You don’t have to tuck in your t-shirt if you don’t want to, that’s fine, but if you don’t tuck in your t-shirt because you can’t, the damn thing is too small for your fat-ass, fool. Accept it. Stop buying shirts with an M tag, because congratulations, with minimal effort you have won the right to buy L-tagged clothes, maybe even XL. Don’t question or hesitate, just go for it. On the other hand, if you’re skinnier than a bulimic mosquito, here’s a tip: skinny jeans and tight tops are not your friend. You don’t have to dress in oversized clothes like you’re straight outta Compton, but don’t wear anything that accentuates your skeletal structure. Please?
4. We must never be able to see your socks while you’re standing: Only one man has ever pulled off this look successfully, but it’s still debatable if he ever got any women, especially since he was black and all of “his” children are white. I think the lesson here is that even if you had boatloads of money (which you don’t) and could sing like an angel (which you can’t) and then went on to wear pants that stop above your ankles, you still would never get laid.
5. Trim your hair, everywhere: I don’t know about you, but I personally always worry what little creatures could be dropping from a guy’s underarms and helping to spice up the meat whenever I see a vest and hairy armpits at the braai-stand. You don’t have to wax your underarms, but a little trim under there will help us all enjoy the meat better after you’re done. I like nothing better than a side serving of peace of mind with my meal. So just do it. Your roll-on will apply better, you’ll sweat less, and when you do there’ll be nothing to trap the sweat and breed nasties. While we’re on the subject, it wouldn’t hurt to take those clippers or that pair of scissors lower down either. Tame that jungle, before rhinos breed in there then come stampeding out of it and ruin the one chance you may finally have gotten to get laid. Again, just do it. The ladies will thank you.
6. Don’t wear your sunglasses at night: Two conditions must be fulfilled before anyone should be allowed to wear their sunglasses into a nightclub. One is that your first name must be Kanye. The other is that your last name must be West. If you cannot meet both of these conditions, stop being a pretentious dickhead and leave your shades in the car, because if you bump into me in the club because you can’t see where you’re going I will smash those sunglasses into your head and leave with your girlfriend, if by some miracle you have one.
Why can’t we get simple shit right? I’m not saying wax your asshole. But fellas, please get with the program. Polish your shoes. Wash your sneakers. Apply anti-perspirant. Don’t wear a washed out t-shirt to the pub. If the writing is peeling off your soccer jersey, wear that shit at home or donate it to a street kid, it’s done. Know what to wear according to the occasion: if you would wear those clothes to Rufaro to watch Highlanders, you are not allowed to wear them out to club on a Friday night.
I can almost hear all the multiple defences screaming through a lot of your heads as you read this, which means you disagree and will continue to do what you’ve always done. So I’m going to stop going down my list and plan my night, in which I shall be enjoying a whiskey somewhere while watching style-challenged dick-wads like you supposedly having “a drink with the boys” while you’ll be secretly envying me as you watch hot chicks form a line to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and a twinkle in their eye. Yes, some of you look like shit and still get laid. But what’s the quality of the woman who lays down with you? In my universe of getting laid, Whoopi Goldberg look-alikes don’t count as a score, so stop bragging that you don’t have to go to all this bother to get pussy. It’s about quality my friend, not quantity.
Finally, I just know there’s some hyper-sensitive, high-struck bitch reading this and blasting me for being shallow. Looks aren’t everything, don’t judge a book by its cover, blah blah etc. etc. Fuck that shit. I always judge my books by their covers, and trust me, it works. I saw a guy wearing pink corduroy pants in Mekka the other day, and I instantly knew that we share nothing in common and we could never be friends or connect on any meaningful level. So leave me alone. If you can’t do something as simple as combing your hair or shaving before you leave your house, your attention to detail is way below the standard that would allow us to enjoy a drink or go into business together, or talk about anything that isn’t asking you to put two, and only two cubes of ice in my Chivas, and bring it in a short glass, not tall, tonic on the side.
And for you ladies who are sniggering as you read this, laugh now. Part 2 is all about you.