Get Off My Scott Disick

Today, friends, I introduce to you: Scott Disick. Think what you may about his mirror-punching, grey-goose-pounding ways, this man dresses like the fucking bomb. While Khloe is a basketball wife and Kim is a rapper’s baby-mama, Scott is a full-on Kardashian husband. Because let’s be real, unless you’re an all-star NBA champion or motherfucking Kanye West, you ain’t gonna wear the pants in a relationship with a Kardashian woman. (Sorry Bruce. You hit your prime about 30 years too early.)

Let’s just get right to it.

Example A: Nothing says Lord Disick like a little velvet, polka dots, houndstooth. Need I say more?

Example B: Douchelord. Achieved through use of 1) trench coat circa 1878, 2) old man cane and 3) velvet loafers. Unfortunately, fabulous.

Example C: I don’t always show my calves, but when I do, I make sure to highlight them with multicoloured board shorts. And don’t forget the tacky-yet-enduring side-of-calve ambiguous Chinese tattoo for bonus decoration.

Example D: Today, I try and look like a badass. As a scrawny Jewish boy who rode in a limo from upstate New York to my private elementary school and never attended higher education, I fail. But at least I have my custard suspenders to keep me company.

Example E: I made this.

Example F: Look at my smoking hot…handkerchief and my baby pink pants.

Listen, I have to commend Scott for making looking dapper into a full time job. Like his kind-of sister-in-law Kim, he understands that looks are everything in this world. Wait, what’s that? They’re not? My bad, Scott. Looks like you still don’t have a job. Ah, well, at least you still have your $3000 cain and your Lord-ship.

In other news:



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