The sneaks and suits crew had just finished off round one at the strip club breakfast buffet.
Inspiration was flowing like a popped bottle of Dom P.
F/W was taking shape.
The shape of a husky dude in a crushed velvet tux and Weezer framers.
Fat nerd chic.
Portly dork gimp swag.
Elbaz spazzin’ on the dancefloor to some old ass Postal Service.
Geeked on some next level OshKosh shit he saw in Pari.
He taught me how to Dougie.
Ossendrizzy was in full on smash mode.
Ice water pumped through his veins.
His heart racing at 5 beats per minute.
Legally dead, he BBM’d his private photog.
“Dude, get over here ASAP. I can’t cross my arms all night. Shit’s about to get real.”
“Make sure to wear some pleats and a bowtie.”
It wasn’t long before sheen steez trou were tucked into dominatrix man booties.
And prosty rag scarves trailed off into post modern two tone cardis.
The house of Lanvin was alive and well.
A foundation made of strip club sausages.
A basement flooded with champagne.
A roof of androgyny.
Walls lined with stacks of hundies.
Ready to wear.
Ready to win.
Ready to get fucking sexual.
Kanye West zipped off into the sunset on a bedazzled Segway.
Never to be seen or heard from again.