[The Grasshopper Report: Fashion, Fitness and Fools.]
by YBLalat

It seems appropriate now that I report to you of what my jogging fetish has done to me. It has since been three weeks after I started the habit. The tendons at the back of my shin are torturing me day and night. Every time I kneel before God, the joints creak (or rather shriek) in pain. Midway through the week, I would exhaust my sock supply, which means going to school with a pair that stinks like a rotting fish. I lost count to how many times I have crossed the Mississippi, but come on now. Does that really concern you? If I were you, I could care less about this young man’s boastful count. So what if he ran across the damn river? That is not news; jumping off of it naked with a brick tied to the ankles would be one, which is a dearly interesting read, wouldn’t it? Such is the concept of yellow journalism.

Forgive me for digressing. My empty stomach took over my head just now. It has been days since I last touched a warm meal for lunch. I have been feeding on junk food from the vending machine around the U. Do you know that they sell commercialized fruits like puny apple and elongated oranges in vending machines nowadays? I think they did this so that they could fit the slots. Talking about mutated fruits, Japanese farmers grow rectangular- and square-shaped watermelons because they find it easier to save the space inside the freezer. Isn’t that convenient? Now we could do the same to pumpkins and make really bizarre jack-o-lanterns for Halloween.

Once more, forgive me for deviating from the core subject. The painful effects of myself entering the unfamiliar world of exercise as I have told you previously: those I have learned to embrace. The embarrassing ones are that that matter now. Each time I dress up for the day, my pants would weird enough slide past my [cough] member [cough] and drop like [cough] heavy fruits [cough] to the floor. The help of a belt around the waist is of no significance now. However, the spare tire region is still there, smiling at me that disturbing smile like I am Bozo the Clown. Fortunately for me, there are several hip-grabbing worn jeans and skin-biting corduroy slacks lurking inside my closet, sole survivors of my once glorious plywood period in high school. Before this they were there, hanging like art museum portraits, to remind me the existence of a cruel world called the Diet land. Now, they are fashionable ensembles of this summer.

To pair them nicely, I needed shrunken t-shirts. I have a handful of them oversized tees but not many of the really unique small ones which length stops midway, leaving itself hanging at the [cough] crotch [cough] area. I tried wearing normal and oversized t-shirts with the small pants I told you about but looking at the mirror, I reminded myself of Fathi. He wore those really baggy clothes: ballooned khaki pants and bloated vivid shirts. Yeah you know which, the ones with multitudes of pockets. One for your wallet, the other for your car key, and cell phone, and notepad and bus ticket and change. You could easily store a day's textbooks in them. The thing is, such manner of dressing practically conceals that extra round of hanging meat hugging your belly. It also makes you look really sophisticatedly cool too. Yeah. Cool and fat. Just like Fathi.

Furthermore, knowing that life is too short to waste on getting thin, the fashion genius that he is; so, he treated his long black hair to a de la Rocha hairdo. Now, people’s attention would always stay fixed above his neck rather than to the belly. Isn’t that brilliant or what, huh? If he had a distracting malignant object like a hideous wart or something on his face, then the strategy would be invincible to foil. Chicks dig freaks of nature who struggle to overcome their physical shortcomings by means of not conforming to the norms of fashion. They are hot that way, I guess. "Hey, I am Bob. Look at the hair coming from the side of my face. I tied it up to a bead and dyed it red. Cool or what?" I wish I had that scruffy dog look of his.

The way that I used to dress I got that from my dad. He would buy me those really expensive John Master shirts not only on holiday occasions but sometimes, just because he felt that "Hey, that tee-shirt he is wearing, doesn’t tell people he is my son. He looks like the son of that crazy poet on TV" Then, he would drag me by the neck to the shopping mall, forcing me to try on those business casual shirts with white collars (Collars? No!) and swanky carrot cut pants to pair them. I looked like some hot shot corporate thug, waiting to buy out your grandfather’s family business’ company share like I would buy a lollipop. But then, he is just a government servant who deals with orphanages and flood victims and abandoned children. So, what’s with the loan shark attire, Dad?

"Attitude, Little Grasshopper. The word is attitude"

No, he did not say it that way, but you know what he meant. More importantly, I knew what he meant by that ‘attitude’ thing. Thank heavens Mom had no participation in dressing me up. She was the one who bought me that stripy blue Adidas windbreaker and vivid-colored youthful Puma shirts. "They are the in-thing of teen fashion, my dear. You shouldn’t be ashamed to go with the flow; they are more sociable and hip. Boys and girls wear them all the time I saw them hanging around the city", she told me. Yeah, like I want to conform! Like I give a flying fart on what I wear or what you think of my clothes! I would have had baggy neo-geek pants and oversized round neck tees instead of the John Masters and the Crocodiles I still have now. I would have had sportswear-branded shirts in my closet and Speedo trunks in my drawers like other kids and hey, became like you guys, you macho six-pack jerks, you nipple-showing sluts. You disgust me. You people are of no class and attitude, huh!