Yes, I'm back. I have a lot on my mind these days, so I've revived the Knitted Bikini with the hope of providing more consistent entries.
I'm returning with the tale of a blinding white light. A shining beacon from the heavens above? No, not quite.
A few months ago, my workplace hosted a Wellness Fair. It was a handy little fair where employees could wander around and learn about things that might make them feel better, like massage therapy, naturopathy and that sort of thing. But the best part of the fair was the raffle. There were some great prizes handed out. Some people won weekends at a luxury hotels, others won awesome DVDs, sweatshirts and books. Me? I won two VIP tickets to The Hour.
So last week, I finally took them up on the prize and went to see a taping of The Hour with George Stroumboulopoulos. The guests were Rick Mercer (yeah) and Brian Mulroney (not so yeah). It was fun to see how they do things in TV. And George is a great host. The only awful part of the show was Stombo's wardrobe: specifically, his pants. Now, I've seen him on TV and all over the CBC building and I'm well aware of his preference for low-rise jeans. However, last Thursday, there wasn't a whole lot of rise in the low. They were just low and super tight. And when he sat down in his iconic red pleather chair for his Rick Mercer chat, my front-row seats provided a little too much of a view. Yes, that's right, I was blinded by Strombo's glaring white ass crack. The image will never leave me. My retinas are permanently imprinted.
So, I have to ask: here's a national TV host wearing pants that are too tight and (my eyes! my eyes!) obviously too small - is there no one who works with him who could say, "dude, those pants don't fit." Or, "dude, the world doesn't need to see your butt crack." And Strombo is 36. I know this because he said so during the show (pre-butt crack). When I was 36 - a mere two years ago, sniff! - I had a pretty good idea of when my clothes didn't fit. If I could barely walk in jeans, they were too tight. If I couldn't hike 'em past my underwear, then I wasn't wearin' 'em. Surely, Georgie, you must have known. You fidgeted with your sweater, pulling it down. You tried, fruitlessly, to hike up your skinny jeans. What would possess you to wear them on national TV? It ain't cleavage honey. So please, for all humanity, find jeans that fit and cover your ass. No more plumber's butt. And no more adding to the One Million Acts of Scream.
