Remember Happy Days? Me either. But i do remember the short unemployed Italian-American creep that lived in an attic above the family home of the Cunninghams and hung out at the diner with a red haired kid and his idiot friends before stealing their girls away with motorbike tricks, the instant repairing of ailing jukeboxes with a swift kick from his size 6 boot and, presumably, rohypnol. He was Arthur Fonzarelli. AKA The Fonz. And here is something else that is worth recalling about him – he was a collar popper.
Collar popping. How many gags, jibes, ‘Motivational Posters’, and knock backs from chicks is it gunna take collar poppers to work out that collar popping is about as bad a blight on fashion as there has ever been? Dudes – presumably that’s what you call yourselves – it ain’t cool. If collars were meant to be popped, they would come popped. They don’t, do they? And yet, they’re all around us – on TV commercials (look out for the popper in the Bunnings ad), in Big Brother (when clothes are actually worn), at sporting events, in nightclubs and bars, possibly in your very own social circles, and definitely at Dracula conventions. These dudes – are they serious?
Some advice – any girl who loves you is going to love you for the back of your neck. If she’s just in it for the collar, she’s not worth knowing. (Pop Tarts?). There is nothing fashionable or creative about what you’re doing. (Pop Art?) And you may even find that lowering the collar stops you getting beaten up on such regular occasions. (Snap Crackle Pop??)
Take a load off your shoulders and, please, stop the pop.