You know, some days, it's just too fucking easy. Life serves it up to you on a platter.

Spandex leggings in a Pucci print. Why, God? Why?

And because I know somebody is going to ask, no. I looked at her face. It wasn't the woman in last week's Style column, seen below. You'd think though, wouldn't you.

As scary as this may be, it has long been my personal observation that more people can't dress themselves than those who can. Case in fucking point being to the left and below.

But that wasn't all I was given today. The next image is for anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of Yiddish. By rudimentary, I mean you've ever heard a Borscht belt comedian, or seen a Mel Brooks movie, or spent any time in New York City. Any. Time.


Loosely translated, for anyone who thinks they don't understand why this is funny, nay, tragically funny, the name on the machine means Dick Master. Only, maybe, a little dirtier word than dick. Cock. Schlong.

Only in Miami.

Finally, there was this, being read quite studiously by a fellow passenger on the evening train.



As I say, I don't make this shit up. You CAN'T make this shit up.