Sir Sandford Fleming. This Scottish-Canadian boyfriend was an inventor of timezones, explorer, engineer, and wearer of fabulous furs.
For more proof, check out this studly Canadian Heritage Moment.
Submitted by JSFMacL3
Vladimir Mayakovsky, age 31, 1924. Photograph by Aleksandr Rodchenko.
Unhinged Russian poet boyfriend. The best kind.
STEVE
Steve is: A cold beer. A smart comeback. A video game still being played at sunrise. An obscure and bizarre Japanese anything. An arm that holds open a door for a lady. A mighty fine looking frankfurter. A karaoke enabler. A warm smile. A big heart. A terrific guy.
Happy Birthday Wonderful You.
You better listen up, J.Crew.
You better shut the hell up and listen to what I’m about to say.
What in the FUCK are these pants? No, seriously, I’m asking you a question. WHAT. In the FUCK. Are those PANTS. Are they leggings? Are they sweatpants? Are they only meant to be worn indoors? If so, fine. But if the answer to any of those questions is “no,” then you have got some SERIOUS FUCKING EXPLAINING TO DO. Because those pants make the model, whose ass is likely 1/1000000th the size of mine, look like she is wearing a goddamn diaper. A DIAPER, J.CREW. Do you hear what I am saying? YOU ARE MAKING CLOTHES THAT GIVE THE ILLUSION THAT THE WEARER IS INCONTINENT AND THEREFORE HAS TO WEAR DEPENDS.
And also? Who on god’s green fucking earth would wear those with heels? HEELS!? If someone is going to wear a pair of pants that makes even A MODEL’S LEGS look like motherfucking drumsticks from KFC, then they SURE AS SHIT are not going to be wearing them with goddamn heels. They are going to be wearing them with flip flops from 2002 that they picked up for free when they left a fraternity house on a Saturday morning in college, or maybe, JUST MAYBE, that they purchased at Old Navy for $1.99 AT THE VERY MOST, and these flip flops are NOT going to be doing any favors to their backside, but that is going to be okay with them because IF YOU ARE WEARING THESE PANTS YOU HAVE GIVEN UP ON YOUR ASS.
We used to be friends, J.Crew. We used to have really great times together. I used to peruse your sale section and find things that I actually wanted to purchase and bring into my home at a modest discount. Now I flip through your sale pages and see nothing but a bunch of oversized costume jewelry too gauche for a Liza Minnelli drag queen impersonator, NINE THOUSAND VERSIONS of the exact same striped shirt, and two pairs of grey windsocks that you took off of a car at a tailgate, sewed together, and decided to market as “pants.” But these are not pants, J.Crew. These are an EMBARRASSMENT. Get back to your ballet flats and your perfect fit Ts and your skirt suits and let’s just CALL IT A MOTHERFUCKING DAY.
I like Dinevore a lot. It’s like the Kaboodle of restaurants.
If you haven’t yet started to explore the amazing social restaurant guide that is Dinevore, we recommend doing it. Now.
