Crackus

Not sure why this is happening so often lately, but I feel like I’m running into a whole lot of crackus.

Right now, for example, I’m sitting in a Manhattan Starbucks, staring down a large woman’s crackus. To paint the picture: Shirt too short, jeans too low. White polka dotted underwear from, I can factually tell you, Victoria’s Secret. Her crackus is peeking out, oh, an inch. She has a lot of white hair above it, with a couple of pimples and moles. No trampa stamp. I was happily sitting solo at this table, until she came along with her husband and two screaming kids. I’m an empathetic parent, so it’s OK. Crackus—not a big fan.

Again, I’ve been running into a shitload of crackus. Crackus at school as I wait for my kids (from the various moms and dads), crackus at restaurants, crackus in meetings. Part of it surely has to do with the warmer weather—no jackets to hide crackus. But I also think crackus might be in. Admittedly, this is an educated guess, because I’m as in as an Alf doll. But if so many people are showing off their exposed crackuses, maybe it’s a fad.

If so, dear fad, please vanish.

You’re grossing me out.

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