***TAKEN FROM THE BATHROOM WALL Editon***
Monday, November 16, 2009
In order to adequately describe Looks Like Dad, we must share a story from our daily lives as Dealbreaker connoisseurs.
Once upon a time on the Lower East Side, two girls were invited to a party by a host they did not know so well. When they got to the party, lotsa beer and good cheer in tow, they were greeted with a ghastly vision: RECEDING HAIRLINE. SWEATER VEST. NEW BALANCES. SNARKY GRIN. And, most horrendous of all, THE COMB FORWARD. We stood there wondering how the fourth-cousin of the Donald Trump comb-forward manifested itself on someone who had looked so cute in their Facebook profile picture, and yet, realized, he Looked Like Dad. Oh, and didn't appreciate the beer we had brought. Asshole. What a buzzkill.
Looks Like Dad is a curious syndrome the occurs to those under the age of 27, and incidentally, they end up looking 47, and not in a good way. Visual cues include: thinning hair, high-water khakis, weird moccasin/slipper/loafer/Croc footwear situations, burgeoning Z-axises , and a weird way of making you feel like you broke curfew and should apologize for it. In essence, the poopiest of party poopers.
The poisonous seed for this unique brand of social caste is sown in the very fertile soil of American suburbia, where it takes root and flourishes, stimulated by Jay-Z remixes on Z100 and the readily available supply of Sean John and Marc Ecko duds at the local mall. It is, indeed, the ubiquitous Wigger.
The first, and undeniable marker of Wigger, is their Caucasian race, which they attempt to disguise under a mass of South Pole sweats and brand spankin' new Timbs, not to mention a warped version of 90's ebonics.
After attempting to "get down" with their "brothas" (aka the one black kid at school, who listens to Dave Matthews Band and wears Polo by Ralph Lauren) and getting denied, homeboy swaggers (See DB #6) home to a two-story Colonial with a pro-Cheney dad and Chico's-wearing Mom, only to take solace in Weezy's latest release.
On the weekends, Wigger like to get down by sippin' on some purple drank stolen out of the medicine cabinet and loiter around in mall parking lots with his "gang" with a basketball and a jacked chain from Claire's Accessories hidden under his extra large t-shirt, proclaiming the "truth" that Tupac is alive and well. While in the 'hood most people have to look over their shoulder constantly, but in suburbialand, the only thing Wigger has to worry about is whether his AND1 jeans are going to expose his puny little butt.
Usually a garment seen on the backs of our European brethren (see #20 for more details), the satin Puma track jacket is often chosen by a particular bro for it's "sporty elegance." However, it is most commonly (and actually) seen on groups of two or three Murray Hill bros slumming it up with the plebeians at rooftop Brooklyn raves. Where there's one, there's others, and oftentimes, the level of Puma track jacket group-hug beer chug bromance reaches the point where they meld together as one continuous Puma-clad mass. And yes, sometimes the love's so strong, they can't resist kissing the other on the cheek. . .proving once and all that the strongest bonds of love between two bros can never be broken.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Oh, the soul patch. Is it possible that such a tiny swatch of scruffed up chin floss indicates volumes about one's personality, character, and aesthetic values?
The answer is a resounding Y-E-S. The soul patch, possessed by those dudes who are convinced of their smoothness, savvy, and, indeed, soul, is in our opinion, noncommittal (in addition to being straight up lameee)--why keep a tiny dot of unshaved nothingness? The soul patch is related to, but no way as ballsy as the maintenance and upkeep of the goatee (another dealbreaker, natch). Either way, you end up looking like a tragic aging boy band reject (see AJ and Kevin above. . .cannot believe BSB had TWO soul patches running their steez!!!), and, quite honestly, no one wants to look like that.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Disclaimer: We have several friends and acquaintances who attend this prestigious institution that we don't wish to offend. However, for every minority, there is a majority. And the majority of these people are, well, So NYU.
So NYU is a difficult dealbreaker to describe; we'll try our best to put it into words, but it seems to be either understood inherently or not understood at all. Despite our legacy of making shambles of the male sex, So NYU is an attribute prevalently manifested in females (males have it too, but it's usually less offensive, so we'll lump them into the bro category).
The last week of August invites a legion of swarming masses of naivete leaving the quaint suburbs and invading our metropolis. This is a moment all established Manhattanites dread.
It's an epidemic, as they desecrate every virgin spot south of 23rd St. For nine never-ending months they swarm West 4th, leaving Greenwich Village in the dust and leaving us wondering if the Washington Square of Ginsberg and Dylan ever existed at all. From dorm to class they travel in packs, speaking of Campus Cash, lecture halls, and their fake Greek life. They are identified by their ill-fitting cargo or sweat pants, usually too loose in the leg and hitting at an improper spot above the ankle, giving us an ever-so-nauseating sneak peak at those thick Hanes cotton socks or Ugg boots. Their Jansport backpacks hearken of 1997 and they tug at the mass of mousy brown, uncombed hair. During welcome week of college they are ready to hit up the 18+ clubs (Manor or KGB Bar, anyone?), the guys resplendent in their Abercrombie and Fitch muscle shirts and puka shell necklaces (more on those later) and the girls in their polyester getup reminiscent of the Deb. Yes, every college in the city has its own distinctive style just begging to be criticized (So SVA, So FIT, So CUNY), but when you have to walk through NYU every day, a little bit of specific hatred starts building up inside.
The bottom line is these offenders are trying to sit at the cool kids table, but their Kohl's-purchased leggings make them look as if they never left Ohio.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Standing on a street corner, lit Newport (always, I SWEAR) in hand, chub-in-skinny-jeans wears thick framed lens-less glasses and a pyramid belt to get down and hipster, guzzles tallboys of Bud, and never notices that he possesses a muffin top, accented by a too-tight band t-shirt (and it's usually a really shitty band, no?), sideways trucker hat, and some sort of cord choker situation (hearkening of DB #2, WHAT a recurring theme!). The chub-in-skinny-jeans is usually a huge DOUCHEBAG, proud of the poor souls he's already seduced, and resentful towards the attractive broads he hasn't (they know better). Because of this bitterness he usually points out female imperfections and criticizes dates for "not being hot enough"--seriously lame. In addition, why does the chub-in-skinny-jeans also opt for a severe bootleg some of the time? Clearly they are ladies jeans, as they hug the thigh and flare out at the ankle. What's the point, dude??? M-I-N-I-M-I-Z-E. Or at least buy some straight legs.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
"So Euro", or, more familiarly, "Eurotrash" style doesn't necessarily equate to the dude's country of origin. If he is indeed European, homeboy has a poor excuse for his seemingly declasse taste, but in the U.S. "So Euro", is a blatantly related derivative of the guido, which corresponds to outlandish, tacky style, overcoiffed hair, and an undying passion for Scandinavian techno beats. Highlights, overly distressed denim, philandering, and a penchant for shirts unbuttoned to display a huge amount of chest hair/medallions also serve as a marker for this dude. Expect invitations to hit up the Pacha in Ibiza and to hold his tinted sunglasses while he takes a Speedo-clad dip in the hotel pool. Don't say we didn't warn you.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
This is some freaky shit.
Even as second-graders back in the day, learning about punctuation, doodling in Lisa Frank notebooks, secretly playing with Polly Pockets inside your desk (you know it!), and being generally wholesome, the sight of a well-developed, healthy rat tail peeking over someone's Power Rangers sweatshirt inspired frantic terror, fear, and unadulterated disgust.
Somewhere out there a little girl took a look across the classroom, put down that pencil, and thought, "Oh, hell NO!"
Let's fast forward fifteen years, and that feeling remains ever so true. Minus the Power Rangers sweats and plus an Insane Clown Posse tee, the rat tail perpetuates as a distinctive mark of the trailer park. This lil' prepubescent bro of the mullet surfaces at the least likely moments, at highway rest stops, Wal-marts, and in the wilds of middle America, but once in awhile in a bodega on Avenue B.
Monday, October 12, 2009
A culture unto it's own, the legions of dudes who pledge their allegiance to the escapist and somewhat fetishistic world of anime culture (let's also not discount Dungeons and Dragons, Magic the Gathering, World of Warcraft, and other organized virtual games that stimulate similar feelings of fervor and reverence) also have an extremely intimate relationship with their right hand.
Friday, October 9, 2009
A wise woman once said, "A dread grows in Brooklyn."
Whether you refer to them as "travelers", "squatters", "nomads" or "drifters," all that's really is true is that they're just rich white kids from Westchester trying to embrace the Rasta lifestyle. Somewhat indigenous to New York City, they tend to congregate around Tompkins Square Park, seeking some form of bohemian flavor that exited the joint 30+ years ago. They are eternally marked by lack of one shoe, mystifying stench, ubiquitous septum piercing, and three-legged dog accessory. You can win their favor by offering a hit off your J, but we would recommend that you don't take it back.
Guy: "So I was hanging out with Jeremy Piven last week. . .and then we hit up Greenhouse and met up with Wilmer, yeah, man, it was totally hot, free bottles all around. . .but anyways, so back to what I was saying. . ."
Despite the fact the no one gives a shit about Wilmer Valderrama (when was he last relevant? 2004?! All his cash money's got to be gone by now), some dudes need to keep their status sounding high in the party scene, even if they don't actually party. It's all about the illusion, or, rather, delusions of grandeur. The dudes may think that with these connections they may be scoring some sweet, young ass, but we really don't care about whose dick they've been sucking.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Why does this exist? The coupling of a so-called "all-terrain" XTREME sandal and crisp white socks is a situation so dire, it makes the baby Jesus cry.
The will to "be one with nature" (this is a male theme that resonates not only with the Teva, but also with shark-tooth necklaces and woven hemp bracelets) attracts the male to the "all terrain" promise, but clearly the matching of the sandal with the sock is some sort of "laid back" ideology akin to that of the mullet. You know, business in the front/party in the back? Instead it assumes the psudeomachismo hiker/housebunny dynamic. Velcro is also involved. Fin.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The ladies who brought "Pathetic Performance Artists" to the attention of dealbreakersblog intended it as a shout-out against the whiny artist bro-types they encountered at their respective art school.
We decided to take it to the next level, encompassing all sorts of pathetic performance bros: magicians, shitty musicians, and comedian dudes who insist "You just gottaaa come to my show!!!" when all it really boils down to is a blatant shitfest of douchebaggery.
These guys tend to think that not only are they exceptionally talented, they also must cultivate a "look" that goes with their craft, usually including a lot of eyeliner, excessive hair styling, man jewlery (#2), and muscle shirts. Even though Mystery (self-acclaimed "Pick Up Artist"/fourth dude down) isn't really a "performer," he thinks he is (yeah, in that fucking Jamiroquai steez). And isn't that what it's all about?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
What happened to Leonardo DiCaprio? We may never know.
Getting wide might just be a part of getting older (or not), but something is definitely happening within the body's chemistry in order for this sort of ballooning to occur.
Another dire situation is in the increase of the body's Z-Axis. Let's examine this in the mathematical sense:
If x= length, y = height, and z= width, an increase to the z-axis is usually formed with the emergence of a) a bubble butt b) man boobs, or c)fundamental thickness. Being a "thick" dude bodes well for drill sergeants, professional wrestlers, and bounty hunters, but if he once was lean and limber, it's just a goddamn shame.