Alan Sorrentino sent a joking letter to some podunk newspaper in Rhode Island last week complaining that mature women shouldn’t wear yoga pants, and the old crones who read it politely chuckled and got the joke.
Just kidding, they peppered his voicemail with death threats and organized a yoga pants parade that invaded his neighborhood and went past his house.
The cows who organized the event called it an empowering attack on casual sexism, but the only people who should have felt empowered are the brave textile engineers who created a flexible material capable of preventing those flabby asses from spilling over their banks and destroying innocent lives on the parade route.
Just as Copernicus was mocked for correctly postulating the earth revolved around the sun, Mr. Sorrentino is right to condemn this frightening abuse of logic and decency.
When a 21-year-old woman wears yoga pants, it looks like two playful kittens tussling under a blanket in a spring meadow. When her 50-year-old mom wears them, it looks like two hobos butt-fucking in a piss-soaked alley.
I’m getting old and fat, and nothing about that should empower me. Sure I wear a Speedo to the beach, but that’s only because I hate people sitting next to me, and nothing says stranger danger quite like my mankini bottom, mustache and cooler full of Milwaukee’s Best.
As a noted granny aficionado, there’s nothing wrong with seniors dressing to thrill, but take a page from the Aunt Bea playbook and wear demure dresses with low-cut fronts that allow those heavy hangers to do the heavy lifting.
And if you’re a spoiled, over privileged, Lexus-driving wench with no sense of humor, feel free to organize a parade in my neighborhood. I have an awesome megaphone, and there’s almost nothing I love more than drunkenly berating people from my porch.