Monsieur Judgymointal and Monsieur Judgymointal Junior
Stop Neglecting Men
Tar-jay does an XY-turn
The Fashion Police haven’t been kind to women. They broke us down, crushed us beneath their velvet steel-toed boots, and spit us out with Le champagne. But their single-mindedness forgot to tyrannize one entire faction of the population.
The Fashion Police forgot to include les hommes, the men, the dumpy dudes strolling through life, unblemished by shame. But their omission is no excuse for neglect.
Thankfully, Le saints at Target — pronounced tar-jay — the mothership of affordable fashion, finally noticed these slouchy tube-socked, ring-around-the-collar, plumber-butted fellas. This is their story.
Once a month, Target sends its designers to sleuth at their stores. The job of the designers is to gather intel on what women customers are wearing. Are they dressed in Target attire? What’s trending? How much weight have the female customers lost or gained? Are women officially done coloring their hair? What’s going on with makeup? Slutty or high-maintenance low-maintenance?
Upon his monthly check-in, Top designer, Monsieur Judgymointal, couldn’t believe his eyes.
Oh mon dieu, Monsieur Judgymointal cried in his faux French accent, into his faux Burberry cashmere scarf. Quoi has happened avec les hommes? They look like merde. Merde, je say. So totally merdey!
Monsieur Judgymointal hid himself into a corner and began snapping photos of men pushing wobbly red carts while dragging their unfashionable oblivious asses through the landfill-pending aisles. Monsieur Judgymointal passed out from disgust, then awoke with purpose.
I’ve got my raison d’etre. He cried. Je suis someone importanté.
Monsieur Judgymointal grabbed his faux Gucci clutch and ran out of Target, knocking down the BBQ and Doritos summer display. Oh mon dieu, he muttered seeing the mess. Then realizing no one saw him do it, he said, Nah, fuck it. Let someone else clean it up, leaving the display in les shambles.
He leaped into his faux electric car, which ran on repurposed Le Croix cans and compost, to call the head of Target fashion. The head of Target fashion was none other than his twin, his brother born in the same hour, Monsieur Judgymointal Junior. Junior answered immediately.
Tell me everything! Junior said.
Why have we been focusing on women? Monsieur Judgymointal moaned into his faux banana phone from the iPhone slapstick edition designed for Target banana phone lovers.
Women are fine, Monsieur Judgymointal told Junior. Yes, Les femmes are sloppy — They do not wear bras anymore, and their leisurewear doesn’t go with stilettos, but oh mon Dieu, have you seen what men are wearing? They look like they are in the cinema Dazed and Confused or Fast Times at Le Ridgemont High. C’est terrible! C’est une abomination!
Monsieur Judgymointal texted Junior the images he had secretly gathered of the XY shit shows he’d witnessed at Target. Junior vomited into his faux wood trash can, perfect for any up-and-coming MBA who can’t afford real wood yet.
Power points were constructed. Man-on-the-street photos were gathered. The twins wept and worked tirelessly sustaining themselves on faux caviar and Bublé. They had once considered themselves connoisseurs of affordable American fashion, yet they had failed the men.
Les hommes, les hommes, they cried. Nous sommes très sorry!
Monsieur Judgymointal and Monsieur Judgymointal Junior called meetings and held focus groups, determined to make men suffer as they had made women suffer, all in the name of le fashion.
Why happened to male fashion? The twins asked their staff and focus groups.
No one knew the answer. A woman suggested something earth-shattering that would have solved the problem as instantly as Sanka. No one heard her because a plane flew through the meeting room the moment she opened her mouth.
Monsieur Judgymointal crashed his fist through the faux mahogany desk, the perfect desk for anyone who loves mahogany but loves the price of foam cork more.
We targeted women online, Monsieur Judgymointal screamed, in the streets, through oppressive laws making women conceal their upper bodies publicly. But nothing for men. We forgot about the men!
The twins and fashion mafias everywhere had created endless shame campaigns targeted at gaslighting women. They had conspired with medical research companies to approve fake scientific research targeting the oppression of women all over the world. They had done everything in their power to humiliate women into becoming ravenous capitalists with lifetime debt, shame, and self-loathing.
But what about the men? How do we help the men? The twins pleased. A woman raised her hand to offer a brilliant alternate view, but the twins were taking a sip of coffee at that exact moment so they did not see or hear her.
The twins realized they had sent the men all the wrong messages. They had told them, you be you. You’re perfect the way you are.
Women had all the power. It was easy for women. Their looks faded. Their boobs dropped. Their legs morphed into elephants or goats. Women were fine. After a certain age, they were free from male catcalling. And if the ladies missed being objectified and seen, all they had to do was get plastic surgery, go broke buying the latest trends and skin creams, and practice something called face yoga.
But the men, the poor men. The twins wanted to redeem themselves and out of that redemption, men's lingerie was born. Men could finally enjoy the shame of jamming male bodies into garments sized but inappropriate for children.
In a gesture of support and advocacy for men everywhere, the twins called advertisers across the globe who agreed to infiltrate the words flattering into every male ad campaign, knowing it was a sure route to the bank.
Soon men everywhere would stand in front of mirrors, judging themselves harshly from every angle. Lucky fellas. They had not been forgotten, after all, thanks to the twins of Target.
Thanks to Rachael Ann Sand for editorial prowess.
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