Chris Abraham

Paul and David are over on PRADE discussing DC men and their colorful striped shirts.

Firstly, David wears striped shirts.

Secondly, he loves them. David argues that it is the Collars Up kind of guy and not the Striped Shirt guy who is so insufferable.

Thirdly, I am not a shill, I am a promoter, thank you very much, Paul.

Here’s the original Collars Up screed:

Wearing Your Collar Down is for Poor People
By I.M. Adick, III
[History of this Article]

When my ancestors came over to this great country 400 years ago, they had a vision for a utopia, free from minorities, liberals, poor people, homosexuals, and immigrants. There are few today who share such lofty ideals, but we’re easy to find: Pastel polo shirts, loafers without socks, tucked-in shirts, but most importantly, collars up.

Call me a douchebag. Call me an arrogant little cocksucking dickhead. Beat the shit out of me if I’m not with fifteen of my B-frat friends (unlikely). But just know this: I interned at Smith Barney this summer. Where did you work? A Blockbuster? That’s right you insignificant sack of dogshit; I’m going to be your boss. So take your t-shirt wearing, financial aid, blue-collar ass over to Blockbuster and get me a copy of Old School. Do you even own a tuxedo?

Look at my girlfriend. You think she’d go for someone who didn’t have his collar up? I don’t think so. I remember the night I met her. I bought her so many $9 drinks she couldn’t even walk. So I drove her home in my BMW 328ci, but not before I took a few “liberties” with her. The next morning I took her to brunch and went to the mall, where I bought her some blouses. You assholes don\’t know the first thing about being a gentleman. You probably don’t even know how to sail.

When I get out of business school, I’m going to be making $120,000 a year. Add that to my trust fund, and I can buy a country club membership, a ski house, and still have enough money to go barhopping around the city in my designer clothes and shit-eating grin. Maybe I’ll offer you a hundred bucks to flip my collar up for me. I earned it you middle-class fuck up. I bet you went to public school.

You’re so predictable. I bet I can guess your political party just by looking at you. My cronies and I range from elitist northern liberals to heartless conservative bastards. I’ve wasted enough time with you. Get some rich parents, an internship, and a pink polo with the collar up, and then maybe I’ll let you hang out with me.