I’m wearing a suit today, and it feels nice.
Yes, it’s good to dress up for work from time to dime. It makes me feel all dapper and sassy and crap. My suit is pressed, and tailored to fit my body’s every nook and crevasse. In fact, it was hand-crafted by Kaiser Wilhelm’s personal tailor, who is now old and infirm, but still deft with a needle, or a riddle if you are so lucky (I was not).
People like me in this suit. The ladies smile their approval, and then men wink their satisfaction. As I walk in my suit, my mind surges with ultra-confidence and I calmly, cooly tell those nearby me what they are doing wrong and how I want them to solve their problems. They smile gratefully and genuflect reverently, and I walk on, pulsating with the power of my suit.
Sometimes my suit makes me hot, though, and then it doesn’t feel as good. Suit-sweat (not to be confused with a sweatsuit) is of a strange, bitter variety that tends to attract feral badgers. However, the sweat can be dabbed away with a handkerchief and the badgers can be bludgeoned to death with a crescent wrench – what matters is that the suit is classy. My suit is awesome. If you ask if you can borrow it, I will tell you to shut up. My suit is better than fudge and Wisconsin Dells combined.
Seriously though, it’s a good suit.