Orange happens. It happens to me with great frequency. Like beans, or people forgetting to call me back. For three months. This is a particularly sick orange incident, a vintage cycling jersey with the label Protogs in it. I dig togs. Dad n lad togs. Teen togs. Hitler Youth togs. Back in the day, before enhancements of breast or performance, if you were going out to get some exercise, you rocked togs. So we can see that I'm strictly maintaining the unenhanced integrity of my togs. I may or may not be wearing this tog backwards, but if you want to get the slice of pizza you put in the pocket, it's a lot handier to have it in the front. This genuine article is made of superwash wool, long before SmartWool decided to charge $27 for washable socks. The bonus is that it exfoliates like nobody's business. Thus the t-shirt. Thought I'd accessorize my Protogs with some dungarees, which would have been even sweeter if I'd had some iron-on patches for the knees. It was the coldest day of the year, so of course I'm celebrating by strapping turds on my feet. I thought if I amped up the photo it might look like I had breasts.