Sans Culottes

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No, Cat has not been napping. But what with the election and the four hours and three voting lines she stood in this week, she hasn't been feeling all that perky and fashionable. Cat thought about sending in a front-line report of the sartorial style at St. Charles Rec Center or Glenarm Rec Center, but that seemed a lot like kicking people when they were already down. It's hard to look sophisticated and elegant -- or even funky and ironic -- while contemplating how best to throttle an election judge. Or the guy in front of you who, at 7 p.m., was just then reading the ballot initiatives.

But then The Cat's Pajamas heard something so chilling it jolted her out of her how-the-fuck-did-"I"-fail slump: culottes. Yes, culottes -- ku'lots, plural noun, women's trousers, usually knee-length or calf-length, cut full to resemble a skirt. Also, first sign of a fashion apocalypse -- have been spotted on the streets of Denver.

I beg you, Denver, do not do this to yourself. Do not bring a severe mocking upon our fair city. Because roundly mocked we will be if culottes suddenly start turning up in all the fashionable places. Cat hears they are big in France. That is France, people. They know how to be stylish with only a tube of toothpaste, a skein of yarn and two mismatched socks at their disposal. We are not the French (no judgment, just saying) and therefore should not attempt Advanced Wardrobing on our own. It's like Kate Moss: She can wear just a man's T-shirt and a pair of heels and still somehow look fully turned-out because she is Kate Moss. But if Cat tried it, she'd just look turned-out in the hooker sense. Bad all the way around.

So, please, keep the culottes in your closet. They are not some kicky version of gauchos. They are evil and must be routinely rounded up and burned for the survival of humanity. Cat has provided two specimens from the 1950s and 1960s, to help you identify and exterminate the interloper.

Next week, Cat will return to her regularly scheduled programming.