Fugslam!

I can see why it’s tempting to wear a floaty white shirt-dress on a hot summer day. In fact, I was so warm the other day, I was feeling sympathy for anyone in the world who has ever attempted to wear a swimming-pool raft as pants (and I’m sure such people are numerous), because the idea of being ready to jump into any body of water whose path I crossed sounded very appealing indeed.

However:

To me, this is less, “My, what a refreshing shirt-dress,” than, “I totally hooked up with Captain Jack Sparrow last night after we split four flagons of rum, and I woke up this morning and found out we cut up  my clothes and turned them into his-and-hers pirate do-rags, and so I had to go through his closet and find something to wear to this talk show, and HOLY CRAP all he owns are ruffly shirts and it seems very impractical to engage in actual mortally dangerous swashbuckling swordplay when you have billowy sleeves flapping around all over the place getting caught on your hilt or scabbard.” All double-entendres totally unintentional. Mostly.