Behind These Hazel Fugs

K Cla, K Cla, K Cla.

I don’t know how many times I have to say it.

I love you and all. But this has GOT TO STOP. A shirt that you thread through your belt loops? No. Just no. First of all, I can’t imagine how difficult it is to get in and out of the bathroom in this get-up, but I suspect it puts the old Overalls and Body Suit [Winner of both the Toughest Bathroom Outfit Award of 1993 AND the Toughest Bathroom Outfit of All Time] to shame.

But let’s just say that, since it’s your concert, you can take as much time to pee as you like.  Do you not care that, with the gloves and the jacket, you look like Stevie Nicks from the breastbone up, and with the….other stuff…..you look like Xina from the breastbone down? Those, unlike peanut butter and chocolate, are not two great tastes that go great together. Your outfit is more like gefilte fish and caramel: two tastes that need to be kept as far away from each other as possible. Possibly with judicious use of a restraining order.

Seriously. I mean it when I say that I love you. But there are some things that our love can not endure, and your crazy-ass concert ensembles are on that list, right after “allegedly slept with Justin Guarini.” Please fire your stylist, and then I can go back to thinking about how much fun we’d have trying on jeans at the mall and talking about stupid boys and then going out to the local pub and getting really trashed on Pabst and stumbling home to watch selected scenes from Annie and then waking up in a dried pool of our own spittle the next morning, worried about the Guarini-related drunk dials we may or may not have made at some point in the Pabst-drinking. Because it generally seems like you’re adorably normal and thus should not be cavorting about in anything that smells of Dominatrix. Okay?

Good.