Have you met my father?

Hey guys, I miss loafing in Conor’s basement, chugging cheap Tecate and Smokehouse and playing grand theft auto, vice city. If you don’t know shit about who Conor is, it’s cool; he’s just some guy. If you don’t know shit about who this puckered-lip pin-striped fella above is, then now’s your chance to learn. Pay attention rugrats. Karl Lagerfeld is like the place between Heaven and Hell; he’s like the austere, brawny middleman who decides your ultimate fate. He’s like the silent, tall kid who would submerge your head in the toilet while Jack the Ripper and Terrible Tommy yanked your underwear, robbed you of your sloppy joe and chocolate milk lunch money, and flushed the poop pot. Like Karl Marx, he’s a German bloke; Unlike Karl Marx, he’s a bulky socialite, not a Socialist. It’s probably just the sunglasses talking, but before I begin lecturing, remember that Karl Lagerfeld has the power to crunch some scrawny human bones.

Karl got shipped off to design school in Paris by the time his first armpit hair had sprouted. So at like fourteen years old, Karl (with a fucking “K”!) was designing fine dresses and attending sumptuous parties with le riche while you were still picking your nose and hoping to acquire that prehistoric Charizard card in the Pokemon booster pack. By age 23, Karl had gained some height and weight and created an “eau de toilette” fragrance for men, women, cats, dogs, kings, queens, and squirrels. And Jesus Christ! Are those scented bottles of piss lucrative or what! Basically after this landmark, Karl started doing well with everything in the fashion world, and then some.

Think of that landmark black and white tweed suit hanging in your grandmother’s closet amongst the nappy caribou fur death coat. Think of that squeaky quilted bucket tote with the two C’s. The two fucking interlaced Helvetica C’s. Oh! The ghastly Chinese plastic-drenched knock-offs! Karl Lagerfeld enlivened the crème de la crème, the cream of the crop, and gorilla of fashion houses: Chanel.

Chanel is to couture fashion as McDonalds is to MDC’s Corporate Deathburger. Karl’s the guy who wears the pants in the convoluted relationship between me and clothes. Sure, it’s true that McDonalds makes an 875-calorie hamburger, but I’ll still gladly eat them, and maybe I’ll even pick up a flimsy Burger King crown, In-N-Out animal fries, and one order of indigestion while I’m at it. It’s also true that I can’t resist the magnetic pull of Chanel Gambon ballet flats and the urge to pet Karl Lagerfeld’s soft, grey ponytail. I have zero self-control with my extreme diet of punk rock, fast food, and Chanel. One day, I presume, I will purge myself of these radical obsessions. Perhaps I will become a vegan who enjoys the soothe-saying melodies of cool guy Jack Johnson and the tinkling Mahavishnu Orchestra. My body will undulate with every step I take in my tye dye marimba pants and loose-knit burlap hoodie. But seriously, my real life has just begun, and if we’re really gonna try and get all hypothetical, I’m just gonna go back to Conor’s couch and pop Vice City back in to the dented Xbox and smunch warm chocochip break n’ bakes. Oh yeah, that’s cus Karl Lagerfeld has a generic avatar character in Grand Theft Auto Vice City. Look for him, the ultimate king of fashion, next time you feel like clenching a sweaty vibrating controller, getting a virtual lap dance, and then killing some cops and hoes with your loaded automatic.

Fondly, Lauren "Bobby" Fischer