Clothing Tags

You know when you’re walking around all day and the tag in the back of your pants is poking you? So naturally you find yourself absent mindedly walking down the hall with your hand in the back of your pants, protecting the square of booty that is being rubbed raw, and not thinking about how this must look? And then you walk by the CEO? With your hand in your pants?

Yeah.

I’m sure you all know exactly what I’m talking about.

If men’s undershirts and women’s underwear is now going tagless why can’t this be a whole revolution? Let’s face it, I buy my clothes from the Old Navy discount bin. I don’t care whether they have a tag or not so long as they cost under $3.00 and cover whatever it is they are supposed to cover. I am not looking to impress people here. The only purpose I see a tag serving is to tell you the size and the manufacturer. Even then the size thing is pretty much bunk because if I’m a size eight in one store I am inevitably a size 00 in another store and heaven knows what European size I am because I swear those make no rational sense at all. It I have a 32 inch waste how does that make me a size 43/22.836? HOW? Is my size determined by an algorithm in Europe? Do I have to calculate the cosine of the ratios of my limbs? Is Europe secretly making fun of the American School systems this way? I understand falling in a range between, say, six and eight, but eight and negative zero? The hell? Most days I feel like fashioning a stylish and comfortable ensemble out of my bed sheets and duct tape, but that probably has more do to with my deep heart felt hatred for current fashion than it does for my loathing of size differences and poky tags.

So if size is a mute point what about the manufacturer? We have determined that I will wear anything that covers me and is comfortable, and I certainly don’t have money for frivolous things like designer clothing, cable television, internet at home, food, healthcare or other luxuries. I would imagine that the only time one would have a desire to advertise the manufacturer of their clothing would be when said clothing was Gucci. Or Prada. Or JC Penney’s. If you spend $1000.00 on a pair of white Dolce and Gabbana jeans why would they hide this fact on a tag? I would want it splayed across my ass is huge letters so as to let people know that starvation and wars be damned, I chose to spend my money of fugly white jeans from a talentless designer.*

Then again, I am not rich, and I am of the knowledge that there is actually this sort of understood yet not stated paradigm where if you do spend the income of Guam on your shirt you do not advertise it; people are just supposed to know. That is what separates folks like me from the rich; both the time to know every piece in every collection and the ability to then recognize and price it on one of your trust fund coke-monkey friends. Again, why would a tag even be necessary? If you can’t advertise that you spent shitloads of moolah on your ass ugly dress and must rely on other shallow dipwads to identify it on sight so that you can maintain your superior society then why tag it at all? Are the rich not human? If you prick them with an itchy tag do they not demand that their body guard find them another outfit and some sweet sweet nose candy right now or their ass is on the line?

Tagless is a brilliant idea. If you must tell me who made my pants then by all means print it on the waste band. Hell, give a sharpie to the Taiwanese four year old so that he can sign the piece himself using whatever limb is left. I don’t need something poking my delicate skin all day long, and I especially don’t need it bound to the fabric so tight that I would have to cut a square out of the garment simply to be rid of the tag. If men’s undershirts can do away with tags then I say it can be done, should be done, and will be done.

Let the revolution begin.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I am off to take a pair of scissors into the restroom so that the next time the CEO catches me with my hand down my pants there will be a much more thrilling reason.





*And why this particular example you may ask? I recently tried on a pair of heinous white Dolce and Gabbana jeans when I was in Las Vegas. Two things: White jeans are of Satan no matter who made them and Las Vegas is the most over-rated hell hole on earth. Do yourself a favor: Set fire to your money if you aspire to either of these things. Then kill yourself, because white designer $1000.00 jeans and the stupidest city on earth? We don’t need you on our planet.