Puffy Coat Mafia

There’s a new threat in town: The Puffy Coat Mafia. The gang of three, of which I am a member, roams the streets three abreast dressed in menacing black puffy coats slick as licorice. Our manifesto: encroach on the space of others at every opportunity; target coat racks, the subway. Allow folded, inflated arms to drift into neighboring laps or read, elbows akimbo, as if you don’t notice you have doubled in size. We are the gangsters of girth, hitwomen of the hood. We live by the code. Family. Honor. Puffiness.

Poke us though, and we deflate.

This New Yorker cartoonist gets it.

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2 thoughts on “Puffy Coat Mafia

  1. Yeah…at this point in the year, my puffy coat (which is a lovely aubergine and which doubles as a Hefner-inspired houserobe) gets so caked in food and road salt and the residue of the unwashed masses that I look like a walking impressionist painting. Ah winter. I hate you so much.

  2. Pingback: I’ve missed you, puffy « Musings at a picnic

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