Fashion Roadkill of the Day: Vol 32

Let's forget about the three-flavoured gelato top for a moment and concentrate about what's happening lower down. Lace is quite the flighty fabric. One moment it's a la mode, the next moment it's associated with the smell of decay that accompany old spinsters and their self-made doilies. Denim on the other hand is timeless and dependable, the go-to clothing in any wardrobe. Put the two together and prepare for their wild and wacky adventures as they leave casualties littered all over the highway of style!

I fail to see a need for denim and lace outside of the Grand Ole Opry (adjacent to Gaylord Opryland). It only works in the presence of teased bouffant hairdos, iron-on Swarovski and songs of stark depression. Well honey load up the shotgun cuz it ain't gonna get any more depressin' than this:



Something is clearly rotten in the land of legwear yet nobody has seen fit to mount an investigation. One popular theory suggests that the jeans of Hong Kong have become infected with a virulent strain of lace, and are rapidly mutating into something unpleasant and frightening. Something that can no longer be called jeans. Something that is vaguely reminiscent of your great-great-great grandmother's pantaloons.



Don't seek to understand. Sometimes it just is.