Some deep philosophical musings on the new TOAST catalog for men.
Is it just me, or is the whole world starting to look like a parody of itself? Tonight, I found this in my inbox. For those people living in caves (or abroad), the TOAST catalog has become required reading in every British household of a certain complexion -- households that either boast a genuine wafty type of woman who lives in TOAST, or a non-wafty type (ahem) who occasionally cracks and aspires to waftiness, irresistibly buying into the 16-year-old-waif-wandering-aimlessly-through-huge-yet-somehow-decrepit-Irish-mansion-in-cashmere-argyle-socks-and-flamenco-shoes-wannabe syndrome. The former orders printed silk tunics with odd necklines and short sleeve cashmere in colours like burnt pumpkin, the wannabe orders something harmless, like pyjamas. Or boots. The this in my inbox for some reason struck me as hilarious. A mad parody of the TOAST for women catalog, now available for men. Or, a kind of man.
Sixteen year old wafty female models are one thing, we're all more or less inured to them. But the models in the TOAST for MEN catalog sit smack dab in that classic middle ground between a documentary on the Amish and a film about the Napoleonic wars.
I have a very giggly vision of future archaeologists and social historians poring over this catalog (in conjunction with episodes of Big Brother and Britain's Got Talent), making notes in the margin. Like, 'Decline of modern British society. Started about now.'
Or maybe, more simply, 'Eeek.'