Thursday, September 26, 2013

Long Live MummyDumps And The CradleDicks That “Rock” Them

By: Ben Johnson

Bieber is a TOTAL CradleDick

Is there a word for it? Skinny jeans worn sagging below the butt? I’ve seen it enough times for it to be a mental category of thing where from now on whenever I see it again I take one glance and think “oh right, that’s that thing.” There should be a shorthand for it and/or the young fellas who “rock” this “look,” and who therefore may or may not also say things like “rock this look.” Like maybe the pants are MummyDumps and the dudes are CradleDicks.

I saw another one today. Just now. On the "street."

I realize that ripping on these dudes is pretty hackneyed territory. But I’m turning a corner. I like it now. If you are a CradleDick or if you otherwise have any inclination to do so, you should absolutely wear your MummyDumps as low and, conflictingly, as tight as possible. Do so proudly. Be brazen. Be bold and stupid and glorious.

MummyDumps is not a thing to be worried about. Your parents will not call you in three years to ask if you’ve heard of MummyDumps because they saw it on Brian Williams. It will never catch that amount of on. It will not be semi-acceptable in a professional environment. People everywhere give too many collective fucks for that to happen. It is a thing, enough of a thing to be a thing, but it will probably never be a saturation-level “phenomenon” provided you can (and you definitely should if possible) avoid going places where there are teenagers.

What is it? Why? Wearing tight jeans below where your legs meet your butt makes no sense. It’s pointless. It impedes movement. The only benefit is in the way it makes the wearer look, some forceful quality wholly, puzzlingly separate from “cool.” It’s post-cool. It’s as wantonly unconcerned with your opinion on its coolness as a man in a full clown costume drinking Wild Irish Rose out of a brown bag at the OTB, and therefore it is cool, and therefore it’s also, tragically, the least cool thing you’ve ever seen.

MummyDumps are dangerous and imply danger. As much in the intended “IDGAFYOLO” way as also in the “Warning: person has demonstrably refused to correctly operate pants and therefore is probably unpredictable in other social modes such as volume of public belches and/or unabashedly grabbing your little sister’s tit” way that causes monocle drops and “well I never”s. This danger factor must be like catnip to 14 year old girls whose parents got divorced and who are therefore in an ungentle coming of age experimentation phase wherein the idea of being kind of trashy is toyed with. Step one is defining how untrustworthy of a boy to give a handjob to in the back of a cousin’s Geo Tracker, and MummyDumps and CradleDicks serve as an easy visual reference point. This, I think, is the essence of why this thing is even the possibility of a thing.

Although I’m not big on pushing meaning where it doesn’t belong. They are stupid pants. They are the current stupid pant.

As a teenager I was kind of like the least trustworthy nerd. Danger nerd. I made out with other nerds. I never got a chance to fool around with any girls who’d ever been in a fight. I’d probably consider this a missed opportunity if not for the fact that a grown man in the throes of sexual nostalgia is gross, bordering on totally unacceptable, and I’m 33 years old. I will not go that far. I am totally flaccid as I write this.

But I have turned a corner on MummyDumps.

I wish now, and I also wished as a teenager, that I had the balls to wear something that stupid. I can picture it. I’d ride a skateboard to Kim’s house, and we would smoke a joint and go buy candy with money we stole from her Mom’s wallet, and then we’d shoot her brother’s pellet gun, and she’d tell me her Dad has a real gun and I’d hold it and sneer. If it got cold, I’d warm my hands on my scrotum, like, “fuck you, I’m warming my hands on my scrotum right now,” and my boy Jay (real full given first name “Jay”) would have a BMX with that super low seat thing, and we wouldn’t go anywhere without moving slow as hell, and if anybody ever gave us shit we’d say, “fuck you, you’re not my Dad” and MEAN it.

Later I’d get into club drugs and even later than that I’d get into computers and be one of those infuriatingly laid-back and agreeable smiling tattooed condo owner dads whose wife has a nose ring and probably sucks his dick all the time.

I am WAY off of that track of possible lives. That has to start early. And you have to grow up in someplace like Maine first. I missed it. I grew up in suburban Maryland with a Mom and a Dad and values, in a household which placed a social stigma on any perceived lack of academic rigor. I didn’t even go all the way with my stupidest era-specific pant idea. I had one pair of Jnco big pants, and they were the khakis. They were glorious and stupid, but not glorious or stupid enough to ever merit a trip to second base with a girl I met that day at Spencer’s Gifts. Not MummyDumps stupid.

I see these kids now, and I just smile sadly. I care as little as they do how stupid they look. I care maybe a little bit that I am now so old they don’t even see a human being anymore when they look at me. I care about this until they open their mouths to speak and I’m reminded how utterly devoid of intelligence anybody younger than 25 is. I mean they’re wearing fucking dumpy fucking mummy pants wrapped around their thighs. What the fuck do I care what they think? Anyway, I’ll put $50 on Guggenheim’s Fancy to show and another $50 to place in the 6th at Oakmont, and it’s none of your fucking business what’s in the bag, buddy. I know my rights.

Can I smoke in here?