Deal breaker

Y'all may remember Mr. Fox. I blogged about him periodically. Oh, he of the snappy wardrobe and snazzy silver hair. When last we updated on Foxy, I had determined, after much non-threatening stalking, that he wasn't wearing a wedding band. Which lead me to the bifurcated conclusion that he was either a:) a single, metro-male, on the prowl in the city, or b:) gay.

Well, here's the update.

Yesterday, I got off the train, and was passed by Foxy on the way out to the parking lot. He's a quick little bugger. I did my usual style check. Hair, nice. Shirt, nice. Jeans, nice. Manly Man Commission approved "carry all", nice. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR-thud. I come to a screeching halt at his feet. Man clogs.

There are (once again with the duality), only 2 reasons for man clogs: a:) gay, or b:) such a delusional sense of fashion as may require major anti-psychotic drugs to remedy. I take that back, you can be gay and delusional about fashion. It happens. So really there's only one reason. There's just no excuse for this heinous travesty in footwear. Other than that the doc needs to up your meds. And the wrongness of man clogs on Foxy may have scarred me for life. Ugh. I get the willies just thinking about it. So wrong. So very, very wrong. The only thing worse would have been man capris. Oh, dear god, I've got to stop. I'm just grossing myself out. It's over, baby. It's not me. It's definitely you.

Au revoir, mon petit renard argent. Tant pis. Tant pis.