Re-Entering the Ranks of the Hoodie'd
Hey.
For my birthday/Xmas, somebody (dunno who) sent me a University of South Florida hoodie, meadow green. This is the first time I've owned a hoodie since some washed up Hollywood actor was in the Oval Office.
You see, long before It's Walky set the hoodie back into its proper vogue, I'd had another outlook on the garment. At my High School alma-that-does-not-mater, hoodies were (and probably still are) the trademark garb of the wrestling team.
When I was a student at Springstead, the wrestlers ruled the conference with an iron hand. At matches and tourneys our wrestlers would pound opponent after opponent into the mat. The school sucked at football, barfed at basketball and made the Lake Wobegon baseball team look like a major-league powerhouse. We didn't care, 'cause our wrestlers would eventually make all the other schools pay.
They wore hoodies because of their shaved heads and a blanket dress code policy that forbade hats, bandannas or other separate head-covering devices indoors. With those hoodies on, they looked EVIL. They looked like they would give you Hell for just breathing their air. They always had their "don't mess with me" faces on, and seemed on a hair-trigger to permanently deprive somebody (hopefully not YOU) of one of their dimensions. Which dimension, it didn't matter to them.
After seeing the hoodie'd wrestlers enough times, I fantasized about them being some sort of darkling monks, who had left the monastic life in order to impose some oppressive and painful justice upon the world. They needed no weapons because they built themselves into weapons. Needed no arcane magics because they were embodiments of arcane magics. They could not be killed. They could not be stopped.
I had been relieved of my own hoodie before I got to this conclusion, tho'. My sister had moved to college in North Carolina, and her need for my hoodie was greater than my need, so we mutually agreed that she should liberate it from me. And I never replaced it till this one came.
Now that I wear it, I keep hearing voices whispering blasphemous secrets about dark acts that lead to ultimate power...
*in mid-shrug, a cosmic zot flies from my hand through the window, catching an errant squirrel and transmogrifying it into a Cornish pixie*
Fear My Hoodie.
FP
PS: Producers Are Money-Grubbing Scum.
For my birthday/Xmas, somebody (dunno who) sent me a University of South Florida hoodie, meadow green. This is the first time I've owned a hoodie since some washed up Hollywood actor was in the Oval Office.
You see, long before It's Walky set the hoodie back into its proper vogue, I'd had another outlook on the garment. At my High School alma-that-does-not-mater, hoodies were (and probably still are) the trademark garb of the wrestling team.
When I was a student at Springstead, the wrestlers ruled the conference with an iron hand. At matches and tourneys our wrestlers would pound opponent after opponent into the mat. The school sucked at football, barfed at basketball and made the Lake Wobegon baseball team look like a major-league powerhouse. We didn't care, 'cause our wrestlers would eventually make all the other schools pay.
They wore hoodies because of their shaved heads and a blanket dress code policy that forbade hats, bandannas or other separate head-covering devices indoors. With those hoodies on, they looked EVIL. They looked like they would give you Hell for just breathing their air. They always had their "don't mess with me" faces on, and seemed on a hair-trigger to permanently deprive somebody (hopefully not YOU) of one of their dimensions. Which dimension, it didn't matter to them.
After seeing the hoodie'd wrestlers enough times, I fantasized about them being some sort of darkling monks, who had left the monastic life in order to impose some oppressive and painful justice upon the world. They needed no weapons because they built themselves into weapons. Needed no arcane magics because they were embodiments of arcane magics. They could not be killed. They could not be stopped.
I had been relieved of my own hoodie before I got to this conclusion, tho'. My sister had moved to college in North Carolina, and her need for my hoodie was greater than my need, so we mutually agreed that she should liberate it from me. And I never replaced it till this one came.
Now that I wear it, I keep hearing voices whispering blasphemous secrets about dark acts that lead to ultimate power...
*in mid-shrug, a cosmic zot flies from my hand through the window, catching an errant squirrel and transmogrifying it into a Cornish pixie*
Fear My Hoodie.
FP
PS: Producers Are Money-Grubbing Scum.