Cheap Thrilladelphia - Talking Sh*t

Bito: What would I do if I didn't have judging people?
Bert: I don't know, maybe have a soul.

This snippet of one of many instant message conversations with my friend Bert (another judgment champion who I keep begging to blog for us on pop culture) basically defines every one of my interpersonal relationships. Ever.

It's true, I take great pleasure in judging people. You do it too. Everyone does it. We walk around burning with quiet anger knowing that others are probably judging us every moment, and comfort ourselves by judging others and finding them inferior. Don't deny it. It's a survival tactic. It's human nature.

It's a friggin' hoot. Especially on the occasions when you get to judge hordes of frumpy strangers. I think you know what I'm talking about. Don Bito usually tries to avoid capitalist cesspools, but every once in a while you inevitably get sucked into one. I'm talking about a mall, of course.

Philadelphia is surely home to some of the most repugnant malls in the nation, whether you're starting to feel like an android walking along Franklin Mills' prescribed consumption track through overpriced outlet stores and being screamed at by the HD advertising from every surface, or reflecting on your mortality as you are slowly crushed to death in the throngs at the Gallery. And on these unavoidable occasions I find harsh and indiscriminate trash talking is the only way to preserve my sanity.

So today, when I found myself wandering the mall I was forced to don my self-appointed Judge of Humanity hat (see below). And at 11am on a Wednesday, though the mall was far from crowded, I nonetheless found many opportunities for sh*t-talking.


I present some of these sightings to you now in a new segment I'll be calling Personal Fouls.

Personal Foul #1 - Stretching the Definition of Good Taste
Frequent Foulers: Youth-Obsessed Mothers
Penalty: +10 Varicose Veins

Listen to me, people. I'm not the first one to say this, though I've said it many times. And I'm sure I won't be the last. In fact, I bet someone somewhere along the line has expressed this concern to you directly, but you probably ignored it, sure that you knew more about fashion that your friend/lover/drooling stranger. So warm and fuzzy are you in your how-can-I-go-wrong-with-Fashion-Bug? fantasy world that you have become completely oblivious to the plain facts of good sense, not to mention taste. So let me lay it down for you:

Tights. Are. Not. Pants.

I don't care how much weight you lost after that last baby. I don't care that you can fit into your eight-year old's rhinestoned jeans from the Limited Too. I don't care that you wanted to really showcase that retro minidress you inappropriately trolled the Sears junior department for 3 hours to find. Tights?

They are not pants.

I could tie some tights around my head, but that would not make them a turban. Similarly, just because you have managed to squeeze your cellulite into them in the manner of a freshly-cased sausage does not mean that they are pants. Because tights. are not. pants. mmmmmTHANKyou.

Personal Foul #2 - The "Yeah, Bro, I Totally Just Came From The Gym"
Frequent Foulers: Overly-Muscled Meatheads.
Penalty: +15 Steroid Moobs.

All right, buddy, I get it. You work out. You know how I know that? Because I have eyes. Yes. I have eyes, and your arms look like the faces on Mount Rushmore. After all, that is the point of getting into shape, right? To look good? Seriously, it's not actually necessary for you to have that kind of muscle mass unless you work on a construction site...as the crane. So I'm guessing that you went all Incredible Hulk because you wanted to show off your body. So please.

Please explain to me why you're dressed like you're at the gym.


I, for one, have never possessed the body shape for which I would most love to buy clothes. In fact, I carry an unfortunate amount of weight in my midsection, making it almost impossible to purchase the kind of ridiculously fly apparel I dream of owning one day. So you can bet if I had your body I wouldn't be wearing fraying sweatpants and a 10-year-old Adidas t-shirt. For real, Mutton, it's like you're a homeless person that woke up with a Bally's membership in his change cup.

Maybe when your biceps get so big that your skin physically starts to split open it's time to sell of a couple of your weight sets and buy some actual clothes, you jackass.


Ugh. Whatever, I'm over it. I don't know if anyone out there is reading this blog yet, but if you are please be sure to include your own observations of Personal Fouls in the comments. I feel sure that with a little team work we can compile a tome that should save our fellow humans from further embarrassment, and also my head from exploding.

In the meantime, if you want more on how I sit in judgment of all those around me at all times, you can check out my guest blog on PhillyGrrl's site.