I know you all wanted a piece of that fine, orange ass.
I heard your whistles when he walked by, your rawrs. I felt your gaze wander all over him, a mix of amusement and desire in your eyes. I saw the pictures you took with him, your bodies pressed close against his own.
But back off, that was MY boyfriend in the inflatable Garfield suit.
He first found the suit in the halls of Spirit Halloween, nestled somewhere between Cartman from South Park, an inflatable hot dog, and Grimace’s copyright-friendly twin, Grungle. In its unassuming, orange packaging, I could not predict the effect the Garfield costume would have on my man. When he got home and put on the suit, he completely transformed. He expanded to twice his size. His arms shortened; his feet grew. His face was obscured by two giant cartoon eyes, hungry for lasagna and god knows what else.
The costume was a superpower–it made him irresistible to everyone and everything in his path. Drunk Jo’s patrons, stumbling home from DPS-busted parties, eagerly asked for pictures. A group of sorority girls all dressed as Mia Goth called him “the most attractive man on campus.”A RISD student in a cockroach costume, intimidated by his power, threatened to push him on the floor.
With each picture, each compliment, and each pick-up line, I felt something die in my scantily-clad chest. I was invisible next to his glowing, orange magnificence. Dozens–no, hundreds– shamelessly flirted with him, barely acknowledging my existence.
So here’s a message to you shameless Barbies and complacent Kens, you lackluster wizards and even lazier cats, and yes–even you, girls dressed as Shamrock and Grimace Shakes:
The only thing Garfield hates more than Mondays is you.