There are three things that — no matter how you spin it — are never good for your eyesight: Call of Duty marathon sessions, “2 girls 1 cup” and the springtime.
Don’t get me wrong — this weather is a huge improvement from the chilly, atmospheric afterbirth that is Gainesville’s winter. Hell, if Al Gore lived here he would be standing on a heap of emaciated Hare Krishnas, spraying aerosol cans at the heavens in a feeble attempt to chase away the rain-entrenched cold weather that bordered on “kill yourself” and “kill yourself slowly.”
But along with springtime comes things that will make your retinas burn like chlamydia: pollen, sunlight and the resurrection of frat-star attire.
Before you bro-bomb my phone or strangle an innocent bystander with Croakies, this is not a disgruntled GDI taking a swing at the Greeks by using some hippie rag of a newspaper as his crutch. The fact that y’all can drink enough to kill a small child and nail girls that wouldn’t touch me if I were covered in Edward Cullen posters and diet pills deserves high praise. And, in today’s society, it could get you a Nobel Prize.
But does that mean you have to dress like the dad from “Leave it to Beaver” to do it?
Unless you’re Hulk Hogan, there is no reason why you should be wearing a yellow tank-top and red shorts so high they would bankrupt sperm banks, brother.
If you have biceps on top of biceps and can dead-lift a Dodge Minivan, I’ve got nothing on you. But if its 30 degrees outside and you desperately need people to see the fruits of your one 30-minute, Godsmack-blaring sculpting session, it’s time to re-evaluate your role on Darwin’s roster.
You might be saying to yourself at this point, “CJ, what the hell are you talking about? I haven’t seen these people you speak of.” You’re most likely right, as they are so masterfully draped in camouflage that it’s impossible to pick them up in daylight.
When they’re not busy hunting down the deer and grizzlies that constantly plague UF’s campus, they are doing their best Captain Ahab impersonations with their fishing get-up. It doesn’t matter that they can’t tell the difference between a pufferfish and Poseidon. Armed with Guy Harvey gear and weather-worn boat shoes, they are more than capable of conquering the tallest bodies of water before the tempest waves thrashing in the toilets at Salty Dog get them.
Say what you will about Lt. Ralph Lauren and his regiment of North Face warriors; do not go after his Copenhagen. Whipping out the tin can and packing your mandible full of crop abortion and fiberglass is so American it makes Ronald Reagan look like a tofu-eating, tree-hugging commie.
So what do I propose as an alternative wardrobe selection? I really don’t care. Wear an American flag. Wear a mud tire. Hell, you can even pull a Mike Leach and wear the “fat little girlfriend” you woke up next to this morning. I would just recommend anything that doesn’t cause a genital genocide every time you make a sharp pivot.
And God help you if those shirts come untucked!
