What Happens in Vegas...

...gets blogged about right here.

Without naming any names (or initials), I would be remiss to not publicly chastise one of my cohorts from a bachelor party last weekend in Las Vegas. Saturday morning, the ten or so of us gathered in the lobby of our hotel to go out to brunch at the Wynn buffet. I looked down, and noticed that my friend was wearing these:

Horrified, I asked him if he was trying to be funny. He responded, quite sincerely, that he didn't know what I was talking about. When I pressed him and asked him why he was wearing these things, he became indignant and defensive, insisting that they were very comfortable. He couldn't understand why I was making an issue of it. He accused me of being an asshole. Tensions mounted.

Look, I'll explain this to you, as I did to him: I wasn't trying to be an asshole. I just firmly believe there is a certain standard of appropriate clothing to be worn in polite society, and these glove-shoes are significantly below it. They're barely acceptable out hiking on a remote mountain in the Himalayas; they most definitely should not be worn in a restaurant, in a city, surrounded by other humans.

The fact that they may be comfortable does not pass muster with me. My bathrobe is comfortable, but that doesn't mean I wear it out on the town. Only one man can do that, and his name is Hugh Hefner. If you're in your eighties and have six hot blondes holding you upright, you can wear whatever you want.

Except for these things.