Ed Hardy Designs: 8 Steps To Perfection
1. A herd of stray dogs are brought in off the street and force-fed a diet of Appetite For Destruction album art chased with cans of Budweiser, Big Macs and several bags of sequins.
2. The animals are funneled like pigs to the slaughter into a room the size of a small warehouse whose floor is covered with pre-fab handbags, bargain-bin hoodies, knock-off Chuck Taylors and various and sundry fabric swatches in every colour you could possibly think of… if all you can think of is black and white.
3. Interns armed with cattle prods then herd the dogs onto a giant carousel in the middle of the room and lock them into place with (extremely humane) restraints before retreating to the safety of the splatter shield.
4. A giant red switch marked ‘creativity’ is flipped and the dogs begin to spin… and spin and spin and spin, faster and faster, trying desperately to stay upright, slamming into one another, trying desperately to keep their meals down, but legs buckle, eyes widen and the tell-tale heaving of design™ begins in earnest.
5. The lead intern sees this and, being a trained professional with a fashion design diploma from an online ‘university’, slows the carousel down to the proper speed for maximum dispersion. This has been determined by someone smart by using math and stuff.
6. The dogs, spewing forth a glittery torrent of suburban parking-lot couture, earn their hypothetical paycheques, coating the textile tripe with that look so desired by the thirteen-year-old in us all. Or the small-town coke dealer in us all. Or the mid-life crisis, extreme sports poser in us all. Or the d-list celebrity in us all. Or the… well, I could go on for days, couldn’t I?
7. Their job done, the dogs are euthanized by being dropped one by one from an invisible sky hook into an (extremely humane) wood chipper as the fresh designs are dried by a jet engine running on the blood of innocents and the ground-up bones of former sweatshop kids before being swept into an adjacent room by a squad of spritely street urchins whistling a jaunty tune.
8. The merch is then pushed by a bulldozer into a string of shipping containers bound for the mythical land of retail and freedom where it will be marked up by ∞% and sold to you by some fashionably lazy, smarmy know-nothing hairdo with a television accent and more chemicals in their system than Lake Ontario.
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