Oh. Honey. No.

Dear Douche Bag Motorcycle Guy,
You're killin' me smalls. The 80's called. They want their leather pants and feathered, permed, and free-flowing locks back. They'll take that vest, too. That look wouldn't have worked on you then, Bubba, and it sure as Hell isn't working on you now. What it IS working on though, is making me revisit my breakfast. Holy. Hell. Man. How did you EVER get into those things. The phrase "painted on" doesn't even come close to describing how tight those suckers were on your rather portly ass. And who told you men should wear bright red thong underwear? They lied. It is not manly. In fact, it's frightening. While I appreciate that your 'whale tail' spared my children the site of your ass crack, I do not, whole-heartedly do not, appreciate having to listen to my four year old point, laugh, cough, gasp, and laugh some more about the fat naked ass that just cruised by his window as he sat in his car seat on the way to his sitter's house. Nor do I enjoy or appreciate having to explain to him that you were not, in fact, bleeding up your back, but instead had made a poor fashion choice in regards to your chonies. For the love of Pete, and all the is Holy and good in the world, do the world a favor and buy some new pants, man. And by pants I mean an entirely new wardrobe. Lest I be forced to knock you off that bike the next time I see you.

Best,

L