LUNATICS AND VERY LARGE COATS...
It would seem there is a correlation between raving lunatics and very large coats. Usually the voluminous over jacket of a lunatic comes stuffed with many seemingly random objects.
These objects, thought indispensable during bouts of mania, are crammed enthusiastically into the tortured fabric of said garments and left there, forgotten and abandoned to gather lint until the pockets are overflowing or until that sad but inevitable day when the occupant gets attacked by random thugs. Lunatics are of course to random thugs what fresh blood in the water is to hungry schools of pirahnas.
Even if the pockets of these great unweildy coats are left empty, the very item itself is like the standard issue uniform for armies of the crazy. Perhaps the wearer will complain of a sensitive metabolism or some such thing, but the reality is a purely symbolic one.
Fuck off, you can't touch me, I've got a really big jacket on.
John Kennedy Toole, author of the classic novel A Confederacy Of Dunces, knew such things well and dressed his anti-hero Ignatious J Reilly in an enormous overcoat, worn stubbornly in the broiling heat of New Orleans in the early 1960s.
Ignatious J Reilly
Reilly's stalwart adherence to very large coat wearing is testament to the historical correlations between batshit insane people and inappropriate attire.
I'm willing to bet that famous real life loonies like L Ron Hubbard wore or owned very large coats. In fact, I'm sure I've seen Tom Cruise in one but his lawyers will insist I have not if he reads this and sues me.
Napoleon Bonaparte was of course widely famed for wearing a coat, and he had his hand in it all the time. He was probably touching himself.
Napoleon Bonaparte - Get yer hand off it
It's pure speculation, but an educated guess that Caligula, Tiberius and Nero were all overly fond of outsized togas that they wore in all climates, never washed and stuck stupid badges to.
Hats, worn at all times, still stubbornly plastered to the errant heads of the chronically disturbed, are also classic giveaway signs of a warped mind lurking beneath.
Going back to the aforementioned John Kennedy Toole, it can be duly noted that Ignatius Reilly refused to remove his plaid hunting cap, and adjusted the ear flaps seemingly in accord with his mental state at the time.
Think of the movers and shakers of history, usually responsible for untold amounts of human misery, and you will see that a lion's share of them were huge hat fans.
The bigger the loony, the bigger the hat.
Except for that bloke from Jamiroquai, who is instead simply a common garden twat.
It is my highly scientific hypothesis that the only thing separating the metalist haunting your local bus stop, swearing at passersby and on special occasions getting his dick out in public, from the aforementioned famous monsters of bygone eras, is just a matter of being in the right place at the right time to seize historical opportunities.
As I write this, I am wearing a knee length black duffel coat stuffed with pens, old bus tickets, gig flyers, random religious pamphlets bestowed upon me by manic street preachers and a cowboy hat somewhat uncommon in funky and metropolitan downtown Wellington.
But of course, I'm not a loony.
If you say I am I shall pull your extremities off with my bare hands and feed them to my semi-feral cat, before making a macaroni picture of the event for posterity.
These objects, thought indispensable during bouts of mania, are crammed enthusiastically into the tortured fabric of said garments and left there, forgotten and abandoned to gather lint until the pockets are overflowing or until that sad but inevitable day when the occupant gets attacked by random thugs. Lunatics are of course to random thugs what fresh blood in the water is to hungry schools of pirahnas.
Even if the pockets of these great unweildy coats are left empty, the very item itself is like the standard issue uniform for armies of the crazy. Perhaps the wearer will complain of a sensitive metabolism or some such thing, but the reality is a purely symbolic one.
Fuck off, you can't touch me, I've got a really big jacket on.
John Kennedy Toole, author of the classic novel A Confederacy Of Dunces, knew such things well and dressed his anti-hero Ignatious J Reilly in an enormous overcoat, worn stubbornly in the broiling heat of New Orleans in the early 1960s.
Ignatious J Reilly
Reilly's stalwart adherence to very large coat wearing is testament to the historical correlations between batshit insane people and inappropriate attire.
I'm willing to bet that famous real life loonies like L Ron Hubbard wore or owned very large coats. In fact, I'm sure I've seen Tom Cruise in one but his lawyers will insist I have not if he reads this and sues me.
Napoleon Bonaparte was of course widely famed for wearing a coat, and he had his hand in it all the time. He was probably touching himself.
Napoleon Bonaparte - Get yer hand off it
It's pure speculation, but an educated guess that Caligula, Tiberius and Nero were all overly fond of outsized togas that they wore in all climates, never washed and stuck stupid badges to.
Hats, worn at all times, still stubbornly plastered to the errant heads of the chronically disturbed, are also classic giveaway signs of a warped mind lurking beneath.
Going back to the aforementioned John Kennedy Toole, it can be duly noted that Ignatius Reilly refused to remove his plaid hunting cap, and adjusted the ear flaps seemingly in accord with his mental state at the time.
Think of the movers and shakers of history, usually responsible for untold amounts of human misery, and you will see that a lion's share of them were huge hat fans.
The bigger the loony, the bigger the hat.
Except for that bloke from Jamiroquai, who is instead simply a common garden twat.
It is my highly scientific hypothesis that the only thing separating the metalist haunting your local bus stop, swearing at passersby and on special occasions getting his dick out in public, from the aforementioned famous monsters of bygone eras, is just a matter of being in the right place at the right time to seize historical opportunities.
As I write this, I am wearing a knee length black duffel coat stuffed with pens, old bus tickets, gig flyers, random religious pamphlets bestowed upon me by manic street preachers and a cowboy hat somewhat uncommon in funky and metropolitan downtown Wellington.
But of course, I'm not a loony.
If you say I am I shall pull your extremities off with my bare hands and feed them to my semi-feral cat, before making a macaroni picture of the event for posterity.
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