Somewhere — and I’m not sure if it was the thick chain on the shoes, the tight plaid pants, or the deep open vee — this took a sharp left into Cheesytown. He looks like the guy at the bar who sidle up and introduce himself with finger guns, and who holds a glass of bourbon that he never actually sips without flinching because he doesn’t actually like the taste. He will bop his head to an imaginary jazz soundtrack that only he can hear, and try to convince you that his dad invented Uno. And then if that doesn’t impress you, he’ll try, “I wax my chest,” before snapping his fingers and winking at you once more before pretending it was his idea to stop talking.
In other words, I’m not feeling it.