Because my best friend, Karl Lagerfeld, snap-chatted me the other day while I was lounging around doing nothing, he asked me to do him a solid, which was to hit up Man Repeller and ask about my BFF Karl Lagerfeld’s friend, Kendall W. Chuckley, and I did just as Karl asked because I’m his best friend, and so basically here’s what happened. I have this weird feeling that Kendall W. Chuckley is not an actual person; that Karl never knew anyone named Kendall W. Chuckley; and that he only made her up so that when I asked Man Repeller about her, it would remind Man Repeller of the time her publisher forced her to collaborate with Kendall Jenner, which would then prompt Man Repeller to talk my ear off, boring the rest of my head nearly to death with some ridiculous rehash of what had happened during that collaboration — in which Kendall had demanded that Man Repeller help her design the most perfect set of high heel clogs, a pair of shoes with wooden platform scaffolding designed to alleviate the discomfort of an elevated ankle, and make proper aesthetic use of faux wool and suede, but which was altogether offensive for Man Repeller’s brain to even think about, more offensive than having to leave New York to work from the Kardashian home in Calabasas, and which inspired Man Repeller to pissily challenge Kendall that if she could show her a clog, any clog in the entire motherfucking universe, that didn’t make everyone want to vomit, then she would give in and design this pair of clogs that Kendall wanted so much, after which Man Repeller considered the case settled — that is until Kendall inadvertently proceeded to win the wager by writing the word Kardashian on one toe of the Giuseppe Zanotti clog she was wearing and the word Repeller on the other foot, thinking it embodied the egalitarian spirit of two powerhouses joining creative forces in harmonious divide, and not seeing it for what it was instead, propaganda against herself, or at the very least a good joke for everyone who reads words from left to right; a story as long and boring as it was useless for my fashion blogging purposes, the kind of story to which nobody should ever have to be subjected, ever, ever, ever, unless of course it is some sort of complicated punishment for being way more popular at fashion blogging than Karl Lagerfeld, like myself, or maybe to teach a person how not to tell a story or maybe just to test a person’s focus and patience instead.
If that was what Karl had wanted, he got it. He always gets what he wants.
Hobo Scumbag is a native of Southern California. Find her at hoboscumbag.com.