Jason's Stuff - Morphsuits
Now, before you little turd-burglars race down to the comments section to joyfully remind me that Morphsuits™ were in the ’Don’ts’ recently, take into consideration that one VICE contributor’s trash is most certainly another’s treasure. Just because Jimmy the intern in charge of the Do’s and Don’ts has decided Morphsuits™ are stupid doesn’t mean everyone at VICE hates them. I happen to know for a fact that there hangs in VICE online editor Kev Kharas’ wardrobe a hot pink Morphsuit™ with the nipples and ass cut out, and that’s perfectly fine. Horses for courses.
Admittedly, when these suits arrived at the office Monday morning, my first thought was, “Fucking hell. I’m not going anywhere in that. I’ll look like a tool.” I tried one on anyway and looked in the mirror. It was odd. Initially I wanted to punch my own head in, but after a few minutes something inexplicable happened. I began to feel my everyday “self” receding like an echo, and in its place there appeared a happy, colourful, six-foot frog. My buddy Alex dropped by and turned into psychedelic frog as well. We stood across from each other laughing and pointing and striking queer poses. On the packaging the manufacturers recommended wearing Morphsuits™ at sporting events, fundraisers, college graduations, bachelor parties, festivals etc; but we began to think you could and should wear a Morphsuit™ at all times. That way you’ll always look like a frog.
In the elevator to the lobby, my sense of self came snivelling back, and as we strutted out onto Broadway I braced myself for the ridicule and crippling shame that was bound to send us packing. But it never happened. It didn’t go down like that at all. For a start, no one had any idea who we were, and that’s a key element of humiliation, isn’t it: Everyone can see me in this embarrassing situation, therefore I am embarrassed, how embarrassing. But if you can’t be identified then it doesn’t matter a fuck. You’re free! You can do whatever you want! Believe me, there’s nothing I dislike more than attention seekers (drama students, people with afros, lesbians, etc) but if no one can identify you, who gives a shit?
If anything, the general public actually seemed to enjoy our presence – we weren’t a pair of narcissistic wankers, desperately trying to get noticed in the crowd, we were good citizens providing the city with a service. People were shaking our hands and photographing their children with us. Some German tourists asked us for directions to the nearest Crocs store. An old lady dropped a hanky and we returned it to her. I even bought some Skittles for a homeless dude. We were like super heroes.
All that ended ten minutes later, when Alex attempted to help a young lady across the street and she told him to fuck off. Crestfallen, we settled on going to the park to be mere curiosities for the rest of the afternoon. After posing by some sculptures because it seemed appropriate at the time, we sat on a park bench and a crowd formed to take pictures. It was ridiculous. After about the twentieth mother asked to have her child’s picture taken with us (why any parent would plop their kid between two big, scary, faceless men with visible penile nubs is beyond me), we decided to call it a day.
Getting all this attention – but not actually earning it – kind of made us uncomfortable. Back at the office, Jose the doorman wouldn’t let us in the building. “Uh-ah, man. Who the fuck are you? You ain't comin’ in here.” I unzipped my hood and gave a weak smile. “What are you doing, fool?” he said, slapping me on the back. “You look like a gay frog on acid.”
Previously: Jason's Stuff - Glow In The Dark Ouija Board