SHARPED DRESSED MAN

So this is actually a true story. I hope that you can laugh at my expense. Trust me I don't mind.

A Sharp Dressed Man.

The battered and beaten lawnmower had paid off. I had been able to buy some of the slickest double-breasted suits around.

  My older cousin’s wife was a seamstress and was making me several more. I remember going to fabric stores, picking out the exotic colors that I wanted.
It was great.

Because I was only paying approximately $25-$30 per suit. All I really needed to worry about was making sure that I had the proper Stacy Adams or Giorgio Brutini's to be the perfect compliment to each one.

 This particular morning I was in rare form.

The suit that I wore wasn't one of the ones that my cousin Stella had made oh no. This was a Burgundy Falcone it had been taken in and hemmed and fit perfectly. I had sprung for the suspenders, tie, pocket square, and even the matching cufflinks! 

I was cleaner than a fish's vagina and I knew it.

 I had been up since 5 a.m. to assure that not a hair or stitch was out of place. I had appropriated (stolen) some of my Dad's aftershave and my brothers Pierre Cardan cologne. 

My naturally curly locks had been coated with enough blue magic hair grease to imitate the S-curl hairstyle, and my peach fuzz mustache positively reeked of Brute.

 I think that my upper lip had probably gone numb from applying so much. I was gonna kill em that morning.

 I sat right behind the two girls with the biggest butts in my class. I had watched and lusted after them day after day. Watching intently every time they went to the bathroom, went to the board, or sharpened their pencils. 

 Oh the way that fake leather hugged those hips, the way Gloria Vanderbilt’s name jumped off those assets in a sparkling white thread, it was the main reason I  never skipped Algebra.

 I probably still can't solve for X but I knew every crease and crevice of both of those girls gluteus. I didn't learn anything else.

 I used the time and energy to watch them walk, spit my teenage game, and try to close the deal with either of them. I was convinced that I was handsome. I could converse with you intelligently about any number of topics, and I was a two-sport athlete. So why didn't either of the big booty twins like me?
 During this period ZZ Top came out with the song “Sharp-dressed Man” I also had begun to idolize Morris Day and figured that all I had to do was to start dressing well, and I would be irresistible. 

I walked into Algebra I with confidence oozing from every pore. I pretended not to realize how fresh I was.

 I sauntered to my seat ice forming everywhere my wingtip Stacy Adams touched. My Grey socks complimented the Grey faux ostrich eyelets.

 I knew that I had caught their eye. Still, I needed to see if the ‘twins’ were watching. So I hazard a quick glance. Only to see that Wanda, one of the girls that I really liked is leaned over talking to some Jeri Curl. And Kim, (Who came in second because of her acne) was looking at something on her desk! 

Well, this just would not do. I  sat down and plotted. 

The teacher started talking about exponents and integer, stuff I don't understand now. 

I am sitting there wondering why everyone is not tripping off my new look. I stuck my Stacy out into the aisle.  I leaned back in my desk so far that my spine made a satisfying noise as it popped. 

So I have my size 14 grey and burgundy wingtip pointing towards the ceiling. No reaction. So I  stood up and took off my jacket.

 I took my time putting it over the back of my seat. I adjusted my cufflinks and sat down suave as Bond.

 No reaction. So I put both size 14's out, one in either aisle. “ I am not getting the attention that this outfit deserves.” I thought to myself. 

 I fairly squirmed in my desk. Now the desk was barely big enough to hold all 6' 4” and 290 lbs. of me and it was old. 

Finally, I gave up I had to do something drastic. I broke my pencil lead covertly.  I raised my hand and after being acknowledged I attempted to be as cool as Captain Kirk, James Bond, and Lando Calrissian, all rolled into one.

 I channeled my inner Morris Day and pushed myself out of the tiny desk. I slowly walked to the pencil sharpener. I sharpened the hell out of my pencil. I gave my audience one more glance. 

“Damn it,” I said under my breath. 

They still were not looking. I dropped my pencil accidentally on purpose.

 Well while I had been squirming in my too small desk, the thread in my pants had snagged. My pants were already torn. I just didn't know it. 

 I reached down to get my pencil and the loud rip echoed off the ragged, asbestos-filled roof. 

I turned the same shade of Burgundy as my suit. I am just happy that my boxers were clean.

 I guess I had everybody's attention.