Fuck me? Fuck you.
Fuck you and this #menswear movement and every blogger in it.
Fuck the #followback tweets grubbing for @mentions, stealing my memes behind my back.
Fuck the reblogs dirtying up the clean feed of my Dash.
Get a fucking job.
Fuck Men in This Town and the Style Scout, trolling down South Camden for decrepit hipsters,
B.O. steaming out their flats, stinking up King’s Cross.
Junkies in fucking training.
Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the dope boys, with their pastel linen blazers and pumped up machismo,
photographing each other in fancy Pitti parks and piers, stuntin’ in their tropical trousers on my Google Reader!
Fuck the Korean style magazines, with their photographs of overpriced kits,
and no English translations surrounded by textboxes and animations.
Ten years covering British shoes, still not publishing in English?
Fuck the Style Blogger and his cronies in Washington Square Park.
Sitting in cafes, enjoying gelato in little cups, little plastic spoons
between their teeth, posin’ and bonus tippin’ and steezin’.
Go back where you fucking came from.
Fuck the all-black-everything avant gardists, scrolling up and down LN-CC
in their creepy #jediwear with their midichlorians, buying straps on straps on straps.
Fuck the Gilt Manual, self-styled masters of the universe.
Lino Ieluzzi, Lapo Elkann wannabe motherfuckers, figuring out new ways to brainwash hardworking people blind.
Send those GQ editors to Williamsburg for fucking life.
You think Nelson and Hohn didn’t know about FYMW?
Give me a fucking break.
Fuck the WIWT bloggers. Thrifting like crazy, swelling up the bandwidth.
Worst fucking bloggers on Tumblr.
And don’t even get me started on the fashionistas, 'cause they make the WIWTs look good.
Fuck the Neapolitan Trapswearers with their side-parted hair, their Boglioli double breasted blazers,
their Nylites, rockin’ their @BarryBonds beaded mewelry, trying to audition for “Gomorrah.”
Fuck the female Tumblr #fashion editors with their Hermes scarves and their $1200 Louboutins.
Over-rated bloggers receiving comments and “likes” and photographed all taut and shiny.
You’re not fooling anybody, sweetheart.
Fuck the Brooklyn dandies.
They never wear neutrals, they only want to rock bowties, they try on five top-hats before every interview,
and then they want to turn around and blame everything on the retailers.
The Roaring Twenties ended 82 years ago. Move the fuck on.
Fuck the corrupt Fashion Weeks, their runway model-violating shows and their 41 pop-up shops,
standing behind a collection two seasons away from production. You betray our trust!
Fuck the new-age designers who put their hands on some innocent heritage brand’s products.
Fuck the marketers that protect them, delivering us into spending sprees.
And while you’re at it, fuck Galliano.
He got off easy: a dismissal from Dior, a few weekends in tabloids,
and all the hallelujahs of the legioned fashion houses for eternity.
Try 17 years on fucking Staten Island, J.
Fuck The Sartorialist, fashion photography, and cigarette-smoking streetstyle enthusiasts everywhere.
On the names of innocent thousands photographed, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your ’72 Polaroids,
roasting in an unairconditioned blackroom in hell.
Fuck the Anons, whining malcontents.
Fuck Guido Wongolini, my favorite blogger, judging me while he stares at my collar gaps.
Fuck Riviera slip ons.
I gave them my trust, and they gave me athlete’s foot.
Sold me up the river. Fucking shit.
Fuck live-at-home-with-my-parents bloggers, with their endless grief,
sitting behind their computers, typing about fine Italian tailoring,
Cucinelli this and Kiton that, while wearing sweatpants and beaters.
Fuck this whole #menswear movementand every blogger in it.
From the newbie’s of Park and Bond to the OG’s of Savile Row,
from Epaulet in Brooklyn to The Armoury in Hong Kong,
from Haji Lane in Singapore, to les grands magasins in Paris,
to the shopping outlets in middle America, let an earthquake crumble it,
let the fires rage, let it burn to fucking ash, and then let the waters rise.
and submerge this whole rat-infested place…
Nice Try, Bro.