So this may be fun for some of you.
Last night, I was looking for a new sweater online, and this picture came up in the search results:
There is so much … wrongness … in this picture, I began to wonder: what’s they guy’s story?
Like, not the model who’s getting paid for the gig — good for him. I mean, the fictional guy who is wearing this … thing.
You get up to 150 words to tell his story, if you want to do that. Mine is on the other side of the thingy.
The trick was to make a statement without standing out. He needed to blend in, while occasionally drawing someone’s attention. He needed to be vaguely remembered, and that was all.
A new haircut, new shades, a sweet pair of pants that fit just right, carefully-chosen accessories … Blake was ready.
He walked onto the deck at the club, casually avoiding eye contact, purposely walking without purpose. A guy in popped collar Izod lifted his chin at Blake. The arms of a cable-knit sweater made a knot on his chest. The caps on his teeth were beautiful.
Blake returned the silent greeting, and continued past him, making his way to the bar, where the largest cluster of people stood, waiting.
He subvocalized to the advance team, “I am inside the human compound. They do not suspect me.”
The reply resonated in his aural implant: prepare for detonation.
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Because there is no way this guy isn’t an alien, right?
My first thought was robot.
Jimmy spent years being told he looked like the love child of Neil Patrick Harris and Scott Speedman and spent thousands of dollars in therapy over it, trying to discover his own true identity. Eventually he gave up and moved to Miami and started to dress like Don Johnson in order to disguise himself.
Alien suicide bomber though? Way to take it dark bro… 😀
Lol! I waited to read your story after I wrote mine…I called him Blake as well.
If he’s an alien, to blend in, he spent a lot of time watching TV signals beamed from Earth as he approached…. Of course, given the speed at which TV signals spread into the universe, most of what he picked up was 1980’s action serials… like Miami Vice and Bay Watch.
He picked these clothes as his way to blend in to the culture.
Reject from the cast of Miami Vice.
more like : Alien Vice
A man questioning his own sexuality, and thus exploring…stuff. Both hands in the pants pockets is a tell. Just sayin’
Terry had dressed to impress the producers, but as if the meeting was set in 1992. Worse, his ideas of what the business expected of him hadn’t advanced beyond what he’d gleaned from obsessively viewing and reviewing “L.A. Story” and “Bowfinger.”
He stood in the lobby, waiting… waiting… waiting… for an assistant to offer him a glass of water, like he’d seen in the movies. The water came, but the sale didn’t.
“Next time, Harvard colors,” he thought. “That should do it.”
OMG points.
Three days. That’s what it took, three days. But it was all worth it. One full day shopping, getting exactly the pale colors that almost-but-don’t-quite-match, and the not-exactly-wrong but definitely not-right haircut. The glasses were a find, retro but not cool. Yes, the ensemble works. Then two days spent in front of a mirror, trying pose after pose to get just the right level of douchebaggery. No expression, that might be seen as merely ironic. Stern but haughty, that’s the ticket. Finally, getting spotted, photographed, and thrust into the limelight, the first step toward achieving his ultimate ambition: Turd-taster for the king!
That’s Horace Schleppenheimer.
He was an inventory control clerk working in the stock room for Fruit of the Loom.
He was discovered by the Ford Modeling Agency in the employee break room while having lunch and reading Modern Chess Openings volume 2.
It’s a Matthew Gray Gubler ‘Criminal Minds’ cosplay gone terribly, horribly awry. That’s all I got.
LOVE this take on it!
He doesn’t drink https://www.theakstons.co.uk/Ales/Old-Peculier/
Are these not the official Pantone colors of 2016? Why should women have all the fun? http://www.pantone.com/color-of-the-year-2016
Blaine left the Republican Youth Caucus Retreat of 1986 feeling vaguely unsatisfied. Sure, they all had a good, visceral round hate for that liberal fuck Ted Kennedy at a late night cocaine session but somehow, it wasn’t enough.
He ran his fingers through his hair, made silky thanks to Paul Mitchell, and got behind the wheel of his Porsche 911 and blasted INXS as he drove back to Marin County. He thought about his life choices and wondered if there wasn’t some way he could better spend his energy making the world a better place.
“Maybe I’m getting older,” he thought with a laugh. Of course, he decided. Their blood sacrifice that weekend, that poor lad from the church group, wasn’t a real virgin. And if he wanted to keep up his end of the bargain with the Dark One and keep his youthful good looks, he would need to find a new supply of unsexed teenagers.
Frank knew he’d stand out in the coffee shop by ordering the Jasmine Pearl but that was his goal. How else to attract her attention if nott to ask for something completely different? His sisters had sworn the clothes they’d selected for him would be perfect; he’d practiced his request several times and now here he was at the counter, face to face with Candi. Frank removed his shades and met the brunette’s crystal blue gaze. When he asked for the tea she furrowed her brow and told Frank they didn’t carry it. Thrown out of his rehearsed scenario, he could feel his mouth go dry.
Back in the day, Jody agreed to let his then girlfriend to dress him for a casual summer wedding. That was the last time he ever agreed to do something like that. The girlfriend and outfit were long gone, he thought as he lit a match to burn the picture and bury the memory of that dated fashion fiasco. As the picture became ash, the last passing thing he remembered was that his ex was a big fan of Saved by the Bell.
When Sarah said she was nervous about picture day, Blake knew exactly what to do. “Tell you what honey, I have picture day coming up at work, so we’ll help each other out.”
The tears quickly dried as a giant smile stretched across her face.
“Really daddy!?”
“Of course sweetheart.”
Two days later, Blake was regretting his decision. He had forgotten about the lunch meeting with the venture capitalist, so he grabbed his shades, tossed on the 7 friendship bracelets Sarah made for him, and jumped into the SUV.
“Listen Blake, I’m really impressed with your presentation. You’ve shown a lot of confidence today. I’m in.” Blake tossed off his glasses, shook the man’s hand, and smiled widely; another year of funding was secured.
Shortest entry: “This is ABSOLUTELY the last time I let Matthew McConaughey do a make-over on me!”
Dennis doesn’t know what he was doing, if he has to be honest. Standing in a beat-up bathroom in the middle of goddamn Florida, with the paint peeling off the walls . . . he looks himself over in the mirror and wonders if he’d made a mistake. He made a LOT of those, considering his circumstances. But he’d needed to have the right clothes. Even if the whole stupid ensemble cost him five bucks in that shady strip mall off the old highway.
But he’s regretting it.
All of it.
It had all started in Vietnam. He’d died. Got his leg blown up. But when he awoke, nobody remembered him. All he had were the aching memories.
He sighs, and shakes his head.
That war needed to stay in the past. Maybe if he changed up his look, he could hide from it. At least, for a while.
(All I could think of was an immortal PTSD-ridden soldier. I swear I’m normally better than this.)
When you dad leaves you to go on his life long dream of finding the perfect tan, you learn things from your mom. Like how to dress. This is the height of fashions from Gunthers Ski, hair salon and clothing emporium. The tightness of the shirt shows off your muscles, even if you don’t have them. Moving down to the white pants, Labor Day, shambor day Gunther always said white goes great with everything. The sunglasses speak loads about the model, where he’s going in life and where he’s been. The good and the bad he’s seen. And the hair style just says “I’m ready for the slopes, where are the fraleine? Growl!”
All in all another successful look from Gunthers Ski, hair salon and clothing emporium. You come on back when looking your best, doesn’t mean settling for less.
German.
“It’s tough to look cool on laundry day,” Blake mumbled to himself. “I mean…all I had left were this and a pair of shorts that became pink in the wash a few months ago…stupid bleeding red ascot.” “Whatevs. As long as I’ve got my raybans and my perfect hair I can make any look work.”
later
“Dammit!” “There was no one else there the entire time!” “No one to see me shine in spite of leftover wardrobe syndrome!”
Dejectedly, Blake returned home to drown his sorrows in the remaining bottles of Heineken left over from the New Years party
…and thus ended the most productive day of Blake’s life.
His sister kept pestering him about his wardrobe. “The 80’s are over, Crockett,” she’d say, rolling her eyes. He’d just smirk, going along with it.
But she didn’t know. When he slipped on the loafers and shades, he didn’t see the grey streets or the shuttered windows, the cold entropy of this town. When he rolled up his sleeves and slid his hands into his pockets, he saw nothing sand and surf, the sunlight reflecting off his ice-cream colors, and all the time in the world.
The Amazon Prime Now drone had barely lifted off before Brian was running across the lawn, giddy with anticipation. Working for the Internet behemoth had its advantages. He threw the box under his arm and headed back to the house, bounding up the stairs. “Hang on just a second,” he called to the living room as he passed.
Closing the bedroom door behind him, he tossed the box on the bed and searched the nightstand for something to cut the tape. A couple quick swipes of the nail clipper and the contents were liberated. Grinning, he peeled off his Godzilla t-shirt and faded 501s and exchanged them for the crisp pink cotton pants and tight sky blue sweater. Rooting around under the packing list, he polished the outfit off with the mirrored aviators.
Admiring himself in the mirror, he couldn’t help but think something was missing. Suddenly, inspiration struck, and he reached for a single gold chain from his wife’s jewelry drawer. “Perfect,” he said to the reflection in the vanity mirror.
Radiant, he stood at the top of the stairs and called out, “Okay, girls, if you’re ready, I can take you to the mall now.”
Oh, man – the punch line to this is vicious.
Those who built the time machine told him, if you are noticed, the timeline will collapse. Everyone thought that meant if they noticed he was from the future. The first time a casual greeting erased the Allurian Empire from history, he realized the horrible truth.
He is doomed to a solitary life. A life of being just bland enough to avoid interest, but not isolated enough to be noteworthy. Always walking that fine line until he can find a way to finally die in complete anonymity.
Daniel was born blind. His parents were sadistic monsters. For his entire adult life, they dressed him up to look like a Miami Vice Detective. No one ever had the courage to tell him the truth. He lives alone now and no one loves him.
Hi folks. This is the 1980s talking. Wanna look awesome at yer next themed 80s party.then THIS look, my friend is your go to for chicks.
Or perhaps you’d want to wear Miami Vice’s Danny off duty garb. Book em Danno for being… cool. .
Bran looked at Bran’s self in TracStar’s mirror one last time and laughed aloud. “Chrissakes! Christ alive! What weird hell hath been wrought on top of us, TracStar?”
TracStar did not know. TracStar was Bran's only friend and also an armoire near the foot of Bran's Queen-size bed which happened to have a mirror fixed to the inside of TracStar's left-most swinging door. Because TracStar was an armoire, TracStar could not even begin to be able to fathom what a “Bran” was, let alone what Bran was referencing.The sunglasses worn by Bran reflected the reflection of TracStar's mirror's reflection of Bran's mirrored sunglasses infinitely. Bran noticed a small bit of an oily fingerprint on one lens and removed the glasses to wipe it away, an act of instantaneous murder upon infinite billions of reflections that Bran would remain ignorant of for decades.
Bran left the apartment; TracStar wept alone.
Did he have a shirt last night? He couldn’t recall, as he grabbed random articles of clothing out of the drawer. Nor could he remember actually meeting the person he woke up next too. He prayed he could make a silent exit as he tiptoed out the hotel room, squinting as he stole a pair of sunglasses off the coffee table near the door. He stumbled toward the elevator, the pounding in his head growing louder. He randomly chose an exit, and cursed his luck as he tripped on the stairs leading down to the beach. Girls in bikinis stared at what he was slowly realizing now was out-of-season clothing. Apparently, his chosen partner last night had come prepared for any weather. He quickly found a palm tree to throw up behind. How much had he had to drink last night? It was only the first night of spring break.
starring owen wilson…
The guys and I were having a tough go on the road, touring the malls of America with our Tori Amos tribute band “Almost Famous Tori Amos”. We also threw Famous Amos cookies into the audience. My idea. I was really the only committed member of our group. I was the over the shoulder keyboardest and lead singer.
Anyway, I had the idea to incorporate pyrotechnics into the show. I found some Sizzle Me Dazies at the Blow and Go in the town of Lake Ozark, MO. Apparently those are for outside venues. I permanently lost my eyebrows and now need to wear shades to cover them up.
The guys kicked me out of the band. I started listening to some old tapes and stumbled upon one of my favs by Color Me Badd. That was it. I now tour as solo Color Me Badd tribute artist, Color Me Bradd.
Some might say that the curse of immortality is that you never age while your loved ones grow old and eventually die, but for Dieter Sprecht, it came down to simply being a man always a step behind his time. Nothing made this fact more apparent than posing at the local Sears Portrait Studio in what he felt was a trendy ensemble. The sunglasses were a last-minute addition to hide the tears of shame when the photographer loudly proclaimed, “What kind of man in this century wears pink pants and a baby blue sweater?”
In over a thousand years of life, Dieter had never felt more embarrassed. He fled the studio and deeper into the mall, craving the sweet solace of a trip to Tower Records, Blockbuster or Merry-Go-Round only to be denied at every turn.
Clearly he is an off-duty CHP motorcycle patrol officer on his way to a private party at the Hollywood Roosevelt Tropicana Pool Cafe.
His girlfriend liked him smooth. All-over smooth. So he went to get his first wax job. He was nervous, and wasn’t sure how to respond when the old lady asked him if he wanted a “Don Johnson”. Worst case scenario he figured it would involve some kind of handjob, so he stammered “S-s-s-sure!”.
Ever since, he was unable to wear anything but pastels. Damn witch.
But the car was cool. And he was learning to love Miami.
Blake fondled the Porsche Panamera keys in his pocket while contemplating his situation. How was he supposed to know that one red thong could wreak so much devastation on a load of whites? He hoped Barbara would forgive him as he gripped the keys tighter… the pre-nuptual agreement was very clear. Either he performed his share of the chores or he would leave this relationship with no more than what he had when it started–a pair of Top Gun aviator shades, a cool blue shirt, and white golf pants that were now dyed an unfortunate shade of pink. Dressed for the worst, Blake mentally prepared to beg for another chance, or hit the road with what little dignity remained.
He had found the sunglasses near where two men had been fighting. One looked like a construction worker and the other vaguely like a wrestler he used to know and they had been brawling unlike anything he had ever seen. It was terrible and beautiful at once, but it didn’t explain the glasses. So he put them on – and everything was suddenly as it should be.
h/t to “They Live”
“Hi dReaM!! It’s so…. sometHING to see you again…. I think,” Delirium intoned as she stood in Dream’s gallery, the oddly attired stranger in tow.
“Good to see you too, little sister. But who is this friend of yours? He looks quite familiar.”
“Oh Dream, he’s EVER so much fun. He wears pretty SOFT colors, and sunglasses EVEN AT NIGHT but in the daytime too, and he loves to roll up money and eat white powder with a straw, only he DoEs it with his NOSE and it looks SWEET but it’s BITTER and isn’t that funny?”
Dream smiled as a look of recognition passed over his face. He extended his hand to the stranger, who took it.
“Of course, you’re one of the Decades,” Dream announced. “Greetings, 1980s, you are always welcome in my realm.”
Well, I think we have a winner, and I didn’t even know it was a contest.
: – )) Thanks Wil! You made my day!
Of COURSE he’s all of the 80’s! Nothing else makes will ever make more sense. <3
BRILLIANT!!
He grabbed the handle of the door and hesitated. He shouldn’t have agreed to do this, but a bet was a bet. Turning his head to look back at the car by the curb, his two friends grinned and gave him the thumbs up. Unbelievable. He pulled back on the handle with a sigh and walked into the pretentious crowd perusing the artwork hanging on the walls of the galleria. Everyone wore formal attire while he glanced under his shades at his pastel casuals he was forced to wear as part of the bet. He heard the snickers and noticed the stares. After a few moments one of the owners approached and he handed her the card.
“Welcome, Mr. McConaughey,” she said with a nervous smile.
“Alright, alright, alright,” he replied with a look back to the car outside and his friends laughing hysterically.
Thirteen years after the series wrapped, and Blake still listed his stint as a Van Der Beek stand-in under Recent Job History. There were a lot of things he missed about ‘The Creek,’ but having a Personal Stylist wasn’t one of them. Not with his keen fashion sense.
He thought being a spy would be cool, and being in Her Majesty’s Secret Service a great honor. That was before he called Q “Her Majesty” a little too close behind his closeted-gay back. Since then the disguises he received from Q had a certain, uhhh, “slant” to them.
“At least it’s not another goddamn turtleneck”, he mused. “But why must I constantly wear a banana-hammock?”
He slid his designer sunglasses onto his face and shook back his long blond locks, looking for all the world like a sweater clad Greek god. Perhaps Hercules.
That’s when he opened his mouth, revealing twin fangs on either side of his perfect mouth. Venom dripped from them and he nodded. He’d come here to select the perfect victim to become his blood doll. Female bodies writhed on the dance floor, each one stinking the place up with sweat and perfume and the scent of sex. There were more than a hundred to choose from, but he had to choose the right one. The one who would most easily be taken in first by his good looks and then easily subverted with the sexy spells he would lay on her.
Ah. There she was. A statuesque brunette with mocha latte skin and eyes the color of lavender. Her chestnut colored hair spilled over her shoulders in thick ringlets. He licked his lips, moving towards her. The other women on the dance floor moved aside as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea.
This was going to be more fun than he thought it would be.
Fucking Todd. How could she leave me for him? Dammit Becky. For Todd! My own brother!?
Chad took a long drink from his now room temperature Zima. He focused his steely gaze on the mirror beside him – clad in a cool blue sweater and pastel pink trousers, he was always calmed by his reflection.
He threw on his sunglasses and ran his hands through his smooth blonde locks and gazed out the window. He thought of all the good times with Becky…. walking on the beach holding hands, all the times she told him how pretty he was, driving down the PCH in his luxury limited edition Hummer, listening to Nickelback and Smashmouth. God, that girl loved Smashmouth.
Becky was a catch. Long, golden hair, hot body, smart- but not too smart, and a successful model (but not as successful as Chad). She was the perfect trophy wife, people said.
What could she possibly see in Todd? I mean, the guy is my identical twin!
The photo haunted him like a bad dream: two young guys, hands on hips, with pastel cable knit sweaters thrown casually over their shoulders. Eventually the image took over his mind and his will. He was unable to dress in any other shades. People laughed, but he often thought that if they knew his tragic story, they’d pity him instead. As for himself, he had only one thing to say: curse you, Wil Wheaton and Sean Astin!
So I just wanted to say that all these little things you’ve all written are just amazing and wonderful, and so different from each other! I love it that we’re all making a thing where there wasn’t a thing before.
Tig is an excellent game. Perhaps you should think about making this a regular thing. Or an irregular thing. An occasional invite, so to speak.
I agree, even though I’m not spectacular at it I put in with me and drawing. I’m not very good but I enjoy it, so I’m going to write anyways because it makes me happy. to me that’s a good enough reason.
Indeed. You and your readers are so talented, this was really entertaining.
Gerald stood there burning up in his blue sweater and people around him shivering. The heater was broken but Gerald was incapable of feeling cold as he was from Charon, a moon of Pluto. He was also very warm, because his human suit didn’t not have good ventilation just one tiny hole out the rear end, which he believes is used for something called “pooping”, but wasn’t sure he’d have to look that up, but he used that for ventilation, his actual body looked like a tower of squeeze cheese that had transformed itself into a sponge, he did not understand how humans did not suffocate with so few holes so far he’s only counted four. The sunglasses were there to shield the unbelievably bright sun from his eyes, he did also did not understand how the creatures of this planet were not blind from that god awful sun.
That time I fell in a vat of Snuggle…
They’d been sifting through the storage unit for hours and he was sure his teenaged daughter was just about over it.
“Ugh, who dresses like this?” she asked with that sneer that teenagers have so perfected, and held up the old catalogue for him to see. She went still as she saw the tattered old clothes he’d dug out of the box she’d gotten the catalogue from.
Baby blue sweater, baby pink pants. She looked at the photo on the page again, then back at her father as he pulled a pair of sunglasses from the box and put them on with a grin.
“Do I still got it?” He struck what he hoped was a suitably ridiculous casual pose. He was balding, and a little pudgy around the middle, but it was unmistakably Pastel Sweater Guy.
She rolled her eyes and chucked the catalogue at him with a laugh.
“They’ll be ready in two weeks,” the photographer said. He avoided Mary’s gaze as he disappeared behind a curtain.
“C’mon Mike. Baby?”
“It’s Carlos”
She grabbed her mouth before the scream left. It had never been this bad before.
“…Car.. Carlos. C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Down Ocean?”
The sobs hitched in her throat.
“Yes, baby, down Ocean. Down the fucking waterfront. Whatever you want. Just PLEASE come with me now. Let’s leave.”
Penny’s was nearly deserted, but Mary felt the stares of every last one of them. Suburbanite prairie dogs, staring. Could’ve been he’s just pranking it up, a letter jacket having fun. Could’ve been. Fuck discount photos. Fuck Toledo. And god fuck the mall.
“Think we can score some blow on the way?”
“Yes, if you’re a good boy. Now put on your shoes.” She patted his hand. For better or for worse, but worse had gotten pretty bad.
SO GOOD!
Gareth wandered his neighborhood, as he did everyday when he wasn’t working odd jobs. He stared at the rows of lifeless houses, convinced people were snickering in the distance. He never went anywhere in particular, just adrift. His existence felt vague, repetitive and doltish. Some days he was very active, some days he never finished anything. His car was tired, clothes worn, the accessories just objects in his hand. Gareth never took responsibility for anything and despite the lack of care, felt he didn’t deserve any of it.
He stared at the buckled street, thinking back to his most recent paycheck – a photo shoot for a local mall clothing shop. “that blue jumper was alright, I guess. but those sunglasses, ugh, only if you made me. they didn’t even care when the bracelets fell off!…”
Gareth’s innocent reality was he’d never be anything more than a solitary colorform.
Glenn Frey’s “You Belong to the City” pounded out a solid beat in his friend Michael’s lavish mansion ballroom. Across the room bodies dressed in 80’s styles danced to the rhythm. They said, ‘Miami Vice’ themed party. Donald sighed to himself, standing alone by the entrance to the room. “They said, ‘c’mon, you’ll have fun! Everyone will be there.’” With a sigh he uncomfortably shuffled his feet in his white Hirachi sandals. Staring at the dance room floor with a mixture of love/hate in his cornflower blue eyes, he took off the sunglasses in a pronounced fashion, “Let’s do this.”
Chip smoothed his hair back with a shaky hand and replaced his sunglasses. If only David Bowie had been alive he’d have won this walk off with Derek Zoolander. Damn David Hasselhof! How was Chip supposed to know that the Hoff despised the eighties? I’ll win next time, he vowed.
Gavin had always hated the Vault Suit, even though it gave him some modicum of protection. So, as soon as he found something else, he put it on. And thus, he became known across the Mojave Wasteland as “Sweater Guy.”
It was the first Casual Friday of summer 1981 for the East German female shot-put team. Brumhilde really let her hair down on those occasions.
From the depths of a distant land, he strides with purpose and panache. He is, the coffee shop whisperer
Hahaha awesome 😀 x
Igor’s cover was a former Royal Navy pilot, struggling to find work as a physics professor. The target was a 28 year old chemist, Jennifer, working at a California air force base. After arriving in America, Igor had strict instructions to develop contacts who were working on experimental nano aircrafts. Soon after arriving, Igor had developed his relationship with Jennifer.
As their cordial relationship turned romantic, Igor discovered his target had been promoted and would now have access to key intelligence. Igor had groomed his source for months, preparing her for treason. It was on their year anniversary of meeting when Igor made a stunning revelation. “Jennifer,” he said, “there is something about me you don’t know. ” Jennifer’s heart raced, in love with Igor but fully aware of the intelligence value of her work. As tears began to form, he said, “I’m gluten intolerant.”