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Yes I am the Muffin Man

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Today we will look at one of my least favorite fashion occurrences. This has been going on for far too long, and I have lost the self-control to tolerate it. As with all moronic fashion trends, for months I patiently photographed the idiocy and awaited its disappearance. The problem we face today is that the Sausage Mc Muffins simply are not going away.

So I must ask you Los Angeles: how can we eliminate the social pressure to compress the entirety of one's belly fat into a sausage-like ring around one's waist? What sort of protest must we organize to free the spare tires and allow them to disperse in their appropriate locations (i.e. inside the pants)? Which government office should we alert to the rising of the muffin tops over the waistline?

In general, this is not an attractive look, and it can objectively be labeled pretty gross and bordering on repulsive. It also appears to be rather constricting and uncomfortable and in some cases even painful. So WHY?

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This is not about being overweight or having a BMI over 30 or society's pressures to be thin or eating disorders. This is about what the hell were you thinking when you left the house in that outfit with your gut hanging over your belt like that and why did you think that was okay? The belt buckle is likely to be imprinted on the underside of the panus for two days and it can't feel good. Can it?

Oh and please don't go on with the "they can't help it, that's how clothes are designed these days, wah wah wah I'm a helpless victim to the fashion industry!" Explain this one then, low rise sympathizers. This was clearly a DIY Muffin Top Making for Dummies Volume 1. I almost asked this woman what compelled her to create such an atrocity, but I thought better of it and photographed her and posted her image all over the internet instead. So I was raised in a passive-aggressive household. I'm dealing with that issue in therapy. Moving on.

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Here is a fine example of someone sacrificing comfort for alleged fashion. At what point does following a trend overcome the desire to have blood flow to the lower extremities? I hope I never see the day when I wake up and say "sorry, feet. I know you used to enjoy having constant nourishment but I really just want to show off my belly today so can you just hold your breath until I get home? Thanks."

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To make things even worse, people have taken to decorating and adorning their sausage guts with tattoos and piercings. Navel piercings find themselves suffocating and gasping for breath from within the dark confines of belly roll. Tattoos find themselves manipulated and distorted by shear forces stretching from within. These phenomena make it painfully obvious that the belly is begging for attention, and when it can't get it through simple exposure, it has to start adding items of flair. Well here you go, Muffin. Here's your 15 minutes.

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You may think I'm being a sexist bitch and I expect women to be perfect supermodels and any deviation from the harsh standards imposed upon us by the media is a disgrace to femininity. Wrong! This look is just as stupid and nasty on men and should be avoided at all costs regardless of sex, gender or orientation. Sure, some men use euphemisms like "love handles" or "spare tire," but the reality is that this kind of love can stay inside the home, and if someone were stuck on the side of the road by a non-existent call box he'd still be completely useless as this spare isn't inflatable. It's not a handle and it's not a tire. It's your flab, and it doesn't need sunlight and oxygen to grow. It's doing just fine on its own.

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Didn't think it could get worse? Ha! Just pull the panties out the top to emphasize the virtual explosion coming from down below. Skin! Guts! Cotton panties! This horrible look was seen in girls as young as 13 walking to the middle school in the morning. I'm considering starting a school uniform bill in my neighborhood so I don't have to look at it. If I'm staring this much, imagine what the pre-pubescent boys are doing in class. No wonder CA has such a poor literacy rate. My guess is they can spell "Victoria's Secret" just fine.

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Usually I see a fellow Dodger fan and I feel a sense of camaraderie and bonding. In this particular instance, I feel only betrayal. A girl who loves baseball should be a girl with self-respect, not some sort of belly-baring groupie who jiggles around the stadium. No more all-you-can-eat-pigvilion for you, young lady, until you put on something more appropriate.

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Is it some sort of badge of courage and honor to wear pants 2 sizes smaller than your friends? Just lie about it. Your BFF wears an 8? Well say you wear a 4 then. Good for you! Women have the luxury of not having their waist size printed on the outside of their pants the way most men do. Do your friends going to bend you over and check your jeans label to see if that's really a size 4? No. And do you know why? Because it would take them 20 minutes to find the button on those things underneath all of the skin that has been lifted up and out of the pants. They don't have a chance. This is a good opportunity to utilize your ABC After-School-Special peer pressure resistance techniques and say, "I don't care what you think, Sally. I could wear a size 16 and I'd still love myself!" or some shit like that.

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Jeans are not push-up bras and belly cleavage isn't hawt. I've had a ton of self-righteous not-so-bright people say to me, "I admire her because she doesn't care how she looks!" You've got it all wrong, jackasses. She does care how she looks, that's why she's risking permanent rug burns to her nether-regions by wearing pants that are 2 sizes too tight. That's why she is tolerating a belt buckle grinding into her gut every time she sits down. That's why her feet are turning blue and cyanotic from a lack of oxygen below the waist. Because she's trying so hard that it hurts.

Maybe it's time we accept our bodies and dress appropriately. Maybe it's time we start looking in the mirror or trying to sit down before we go out. Or maybe it's just a good time for liposuction. Who knows.

All photos by Malingering, who would rather go naked than endure wearing jeans that tight.