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. 12/X: Shhh. We do not care about the padded crotch and buttocks. There is no argument you can make that will convince us to allow bicycling shorts to be worn, anymore. The cursed garments are just wrong. You know it and we know it. We have all averted our eyes to avoid gazing upon the compressed goods of this or that errant cyclist. It’s simply gross. Icky, in fact. The Emperor envisions a world of aesthetic joy for all happy minions. Nothing causes joyous interruptus on the morning commute (which is typically joyless anyway) than a casual glance over at the anatomically intimate accentuation of some middle-aged fop’s schwazzeels as he stands in order to gain peddle-force on an incline in the road. No one should have to see this. Think of the children!
The Punishment: You want compression shorts? We’ll GIVE you compression shorts! (Just throw on a pair of sweat pants, for heaven’s sake. The Emperor begs you from the depths of his sad, image-burned eyes.)
The Emperor will grace the world with a new decree each Tuesday morning.