Confessions Of An Old Navy Whore

My entire wardrobe is from Old Navy. My shirts. My shorts. My entire set of surfing-themed cock rings. All Old Navy. I must have over 200 items from Old Navy in my closet. Total cost? Probably about three dollars. God bless Polynesia and its relaxed child labor laws. You wouldn’t believe the attention to detail that comes from a 7-year-old seamstress who gets beaten with sugar cane every ten minutes. Mrs. Drew does most of her shopping at Old Navy. Many of the girl’s clothes come from there. Will you be seeing our family rock madras this summer? Fuck yes, you will.

I’ve shopped at the Gap. And I’ve shopped at Banana Republic, which was a much better store when it had a 19th century African colonist theme and only sold brown clothing. Both stores now specialize in making ugly clothes for small, gay Italian men. I don’t get it. Gap stockholders, you might want to inform the company to stock pants larger than a 32” waist. This is America. We eat hollowed-out potato skins filled with cheese, bacon, and sour cream in this country. Thirty-two inches makes a tight garter size here. Let that shit out.

Old Navy (which, oddly enough, is owned by the same company that owns Gap and Banana. Wait a second. Gap and Banana? Oh, now the tight clothing makes sense to me.), on the other hand, is the greatest store on Earth. I particularly love the graphic t-shirts, which are supposed to look like vintage t-shirts, but instead sport invented, non-trademarked company logos. It makes me feel like a Japanese tourist. I have one that says “Shasta Lake Beach Camp.” What is Shasta Lake Beach Camp, you ask? Fuck if I know. I like to tell people I lost my virginity there at age 8. Or I say it’s where Shasta Diet Orange Soda comes from. I also have one that says “Mexico” for no reason at all. And I have one that has the number 34 on it. What’s 34 mean? Who cares! That’s my fucking number now! All three of those shirts together were 10 bucks. They could say, “I love fudge!” for all I care.

Old Navy also specializes in my pant style, which is the 40-inch waist pant for men who have no ass but have thighs like Beyonce. Awesome! I even found a swimsuit that didn’t have that meshy, bullhugging lining on the inside. You know the one I’m talking about.

They also have roughly 8,567,873 pairs of cargo pants. They have cargo pants with cargo pockets on the cargo pockets. You could hook up the entire crowd at a fucking Pearl Jam concert with these pants. These pants have so many pockets, I need to go through two zippers and a Velcro flap just to scratch my balls. The detail is mind-blowing.

Flip flops? They have them. Belts? Got ‘em. Sunglasses? Got ‘em. Randomly placed vending machines that sell you superballs for a quarter? Got ‘em. They don’t leave anything to chance in this store. There’s enough fleece in one Old Navy store to cushion a botched skydive. There are enough Hawaiian shirts there to keep John Lasseter of Pixar molesting children for at least another three decades. It’s a miraculous store, I tell you.

And yet, whenever the checkout clerk asks me if I want an Old Navy card, my response is always the same. It starts with “Fuck” and ends with “No”.