I have been declared Emperor of the World. Let us not waste time explaining why or how; let’s all simply accept the fact that we are better off, as a result; hence, my next decree:
Emperor’s Decree No. 7 1/4: You know of whom I speak. You have seen him. He is not terribly good-looking, nor is he terribly ugly. He wears a tight T-shirt and carefully-cut jeans whose cuffs fall, frayed, just-so, over his sandals or Vans, but none of this has the same effect that it has on his more athletic companions. He’s not fat; he is not thin; he’s soft-ish. He probably is losing some hair at 23, so he has grown a goatee. And, he wears a hat to bars — a plucky, anachronistic hat. A Bing Crosby hat that Bing took seriously and wore without irony; but our young friend “gets the joke.” The hat is too small, on purpose, so that it sits high on his crown. Somewhere in his subconscious he probably feels it draws the attention of girls from his doughy torso and from his sub-handsome face…and up…up…up…to his “mind.” To his personality, which (it is made clear by the hat) is irreverent and…plucky. He is not Channing Tatum, this one. He is Jason Mraz. He is a madcap. He’s the guy who goes and gets the keg and makes up obscenely-illustrated paper tickets to sell from room to room. He is the assembler of beer bongs. He is the keeper of seeding charts during beer pong. He is the guy who talks to your girlfriend on Tuesday night, on a bench outside the humanities building, and who tells her that you kissed another girl the previous weekend… simply because she is “too nice and pretty” and he “can’t stand to see her get hurt” [read: because he feels he deserves to get sex for this altruistic sharing of information]. He will get a hug. That will be all.
The Punishment: If found in bars by the Imperial Bouncers, these plucky fops will be…well…made to eat their hats.
Now, go forth and obey.
The Emperor will grace the world with a new decree each Tuesday morning.
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