Dear Ms. Wolf T-shirt Wearer:
I really like your shirt. Remember when we were in grade school and our parents wanted us to wear that wolf shift and we absolutely hated it? Well, 18 years later and here you are, representing your old-school rebel past with a wolf shirt. I found one at Value Village for $4.99, but you do the shirt justice and paid $45.99 at the ultra-chic thrift store. I like yours better, though; it seems magical, and I think it cures cancer. When walking through campus on a dark night, who needs security when you have your wolf shirt? It wards off evil spirits, frightens tailless raccoons and, don’t forget, it makes that creepy dude in your English class feel threatened by your inner animal. You’re late on handing in that 2000 word paper, but no worries, you got the wolf shirt. The crowds in the halls open up right before you - it’s like you’re Moses parting the Red Sea, all thanks to Dwight Schrute. Congratulations, you’re supernatural but you still look like a fool. // Natahsha Prakash

Dear Fedora Dudes:
If I see another one of you, I will rip out my eyeballs. Just kidding, only because I know I will see another man in a fedora before the day is over and I definitely need my eyeballs. Sure, Justin Timberlake made it look cool like four years ago, but you know what else he made cool? Putting your dick in a box. There are three types of you guys. The first is the type who is trying to be all ironic, but failing miserably. I see you in the library, Googling "how to look really cool" while pretending to research indie music. The second are you guys who genuinely believe that a fedora will make you look like a classy gentleman. It doesn't make you look like a classy gentleman. It makes you look like a guy who doesn't know to take his hat off at the dinner table. The last of you guys in fedoras are the kind I hate the most. I know that you seldom leave your basement, living on a diet of your mother's baking, World of Warcraft, and virginity. When you emerge from your hovel of loneliness, you throw on a fedora because, not only does it cover the grease in your hair, you think women will like it. Definitely not true. Moral of the story? Don’t wear a fedora. Ever. We live in Canada, toques are acceptable all year round here. // Kaitlyn Shore

Dear Ms. Ladyvest,
You offend me. In the good old days, women — real women — wore dresses. Suits and pants and tights and, most importantly, vests, were the domain of men. Now so-called “liberated” women strut around wearing whatever their bloated egos desire, and they even have the utter gall to don vests! This is a sacred article of clothing. It was once a symbol of power: a modern adaption of a chest plate worn into battle. This proud symbol of the warrior sex smothers any sign of softness. One can only surmise that these vest-wearing women have complex emotional issues. Theodore Roosevelt was known to wear vests. Tell me, young men, are you attracted to Theodore Roosevelt? Of course you aren’t, except on an admiring level — so, do not buy Theodore Roosevelt a lobster dinner. Ladies, spend your money on a childbearing investment, like a gown that displays pillowy cleavage nested in a nice, breath-restricting corset with lots of gold embroidery, yeah, maybe some damn fine taffeta, a sexy fucking thick-ass bustle, and some sweet hoop skirt that makes it impossible to escape out the fire exit. Mmmhmmm! //Henry Makow

Dear Leg-Warmer-Wearing Girls,
You rock. Your style is so Black Swan but without the MDMA experience because that's illegal. You ballet dancers should always be bragging about how lucky you are. I mean, come on, leg warmers any day of the year? Most of us have to wait for the first chilly day of fall. And for you lame non-ballerinas who wanna calf it in fuzz town? They’re best paired with huge rubber boots, which unfortunately make your toes live in a sauna, but c’est la vie of snazzy legs. They’re super easy to make too. Just go to your local Sally Anne, grab a fugly sweater with sick sleeves, snip off the arms, do a little hem and presto, your calves are adorable. They might need some slight alteration, but your mom’s sewing machine has been alone too long anyways. Now you can flash dance your way to English and find a use for that American Apparel leotard you can never actually wear in public because it would be illegal if you did. // Katherine Alpen

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