the filipino s.w.a.t. team.

Let me tell you about my costume. Imagine what I say in the remaining of this paragraph just so that you can visualize it all. You know the beautiful costumes that dancers you see wear? You know, those you see on the television when you’ve got fuck all to do with your time/life. In particular, I’m sure you’ve seen them sleek, hip, uppity-up ding dong-ing spiffy black numbers that allows for both freedom of one’s limbs in their totality and are pretty much the epitome of design and chic worthy of compensating for global fashion disasters such that the fashion police becomes extinct for the next 3 centuries.

Got that all in your head? Well our costume is not like this. At fucking all. So whatever you have in your head now, take note not to include even a passing suggestion of it in trying to conjure up an image of our costume in your mind.

The garment, when viewed under pure, undulating white light, finds its place, with regards to hue classification on the 4096 colour wheel preferred by graphic designers the world over; under the nomenclature “Fugly”. And its woeful fuck-up in the size department. Hell knows what manner of demographics were consulted – what, trolls with 1-foot torsos, 5-foot legs, size 20 chests and size 36 waists? Or a close enough measure of ‘thereabouts’, anyway.

But excitement mounts in Sashayville as the respective ‘everyone’ anxiously prepares, in all anxiety (sorry I don’t know anymore forms of ‘anxious’), to parade the distinct poverty in the cloth department with regards to that which stands as each and every individual’s Helm’s Deep to modesty. Of course this isn’t done without some measure of subterfuge. There’s the usual bitching directed at them poor tailors who’ve already been condemned to burn in hell by the grand-sugar-daddy of words, the Bard himself; but you’ll need light-sensitive shades (preferably those with cardboard for lenses) in order for you to miss the multitudinous glints of gratitude in them peepers in response to yet another chance outside of only their everyday fashion escapades to flaunt what they don’t have but are under multiple layers of realistic, life-like illusions that they possess in excess.

And so, what do you have but a group that looks as disjointed as Houdini should every time he does that frightful thing with the box and the water and the semi-clad nymphet from Arabia in the toilet 2 doors down Sunset Strip. I mean, we look like crack members of the S.W.A.T. team who’s invaded a troop of Filipino maids and in the midst of the confusion, due to the theory in accordance with the Transambulation of Pseudo-Cosmic Anti-Matter, has resulted in the whole bunch of us (I mean the crack troops and the servants) performing miraculously coordinated spasmodic twitching to bad music, a poor audience and an even worse organization.