My Hat

I will only be addressing men's headgear today, not that you were really expecting a spiel on such haberdashery. Women's hats are strange articles that are beyond my powers of pontification. I have seen some that look more like inverted soup tureens than headdresses. Who can forget Lucy's flower pot hat that topped off her potato sack dress from the Europe episodes of I Love Lucy. At least Lucille Ball was jesting. No we are here to talk about manly hats, such as you might find the Marlboro Man underneath. That means we're not discussing ball caps either. Okay, but just for a moment.

Caps are the dross of the hat world.  Caps are what you wear if you didn't have time to shampoo. They come in handy to catch the barf after a night of hard drinking, but that's the highest praise I can find for them. And why do they always have to say something? Everyone of them ought to just say, "I'm a dumb effing cap."

In contrast, I am resplendent in my Wilson's Leather Cowboy Hat. Now, that's a great hat! It attracts compliments to me such as, "That's a great hat!" I said it attracts compliments; I didn't say they were imaginative ones.

A hat like this one has many uses. It keeps off the rain and snow. It deflects the urine if I happen to be walking under an overpass. When I get home, I tip my hat over and deposit my scarf in it.  See! It's a scarf-holder too! In fact, it could be a receptacle for many things, but just not barf.  No sir. Not my hat.

I got it at the outlet store for about sixty bucks. What a steal! It was like poaching ivory. You should get one.

There you have it. Here is a tip of the hat - to my hat.

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