To The Lady Oozing With Overinflated Sense Of Own Hotness: We Need To Talk.

Hi, Lady! I was working, and you walked into my store. Don't worry, no need to get off your cell phone, or lower your voice below jet engine decibel levels! I have an extraordinary tolerance for rude people. Not to mention I was positively fascinated by your take on what Allison should do about the guy with the backhair who left his boxers in her room. I agree, Lady! She should, like, uhdunno, totally burn them. So clever! Clearly, Lady, you had me at "uhdunno." Since I'm quite fond of you, I'll try to put this nicely:

You need to set your wardrobe aflame. By that I mean, put every item of clothing you own in a steel drum, douse it with gasoline, nail polish remover, Bacardi 151 and any other highly flammable liquid you have in your home, and set that shit on fire. The remnants of this effigy of fashion should be buried far below the Earth's crust, alongside Vanilla Ice's Greatest Hits album and the guy who invented Bacon-flavored Easy Mac.

Now Lady, don't get me wrong. You have the right to wear whatever you please, because this is AMERICA, god damn it. I fully support the right of citizens to strut their stuff in, say, hot pink leggings and an oversized Winnie The Pooh t-shirt purchased at Disneyland in 1995, like the Lady, we'll call her Lady Part Uno, who wandered into my store before you. But, the outfit you wore into my store today, Lady Part Dos, should never have been seen by the eyes of Man.

Okay, Lady, so let's start from the bottom and work our way up:

YOUR SHOES. My oh my, Lady, I never knew they made 3" wedge Jelly sandals. If the year were 1997 and I was looking for an edge over the sluts of my 12-and-up summer camp, I would have rocked the hell out of these. I may have added some Puff Paint though--alas, we are all fallible.

YOUR PANTS!! Oh god, your pants. They are at least four sizes too small, and my soul is crying. Big can be beautiful if Big wears the appropriate pant size. Buying a size eight does not a size eight make.

YOUR SHIRT AND/OR YOUR LACK OF TANK TOP. Okay, Lady, I think I've been pretty tolerant of your shenanigans thus far. The buck stops here, Toots. When you purchase, and wear--IN PUBLIC!!--a blouse with slits on either side that go up to your rib cage, the designer of this shirt is sending you a not-so-subtle message to wear this OVER A TANK TOP. These slits are not flesh curtains. They are not meant to flutter in the breeze, exposing your naked muffin top for all to see. TRUST ME.

YOUR MAKE-UP. White eyeliner? Really? Am I on Candid Camera?

Okay, Lady! I feel better now. Thank you for wandering into my store and loudly not buying anything whilst violating my corneas and offending my paying customers with your exposed and exorbitant flesh! You're hawt!