It has to be. It does not inhibit the natural ebb and flow of the fat as you waddle about your day. It lets air circulate to various underfat regions that would otherwise be suffocating when wearing clothes not designed for Mexican cowboys. Essentially you just grab a big blanket and stick your giant melon head through the hole in the middle, and you are ready to rock. Another feature is the ease with which you can brush off hot dog toppings, pepperoni, cookie crumbs, pie fillings, globs of mayonnaise and french fries which miss your gullet in the frenzy which occurs at the mouth. You can just wipe that shit right off with a ham hock-swipe of the arm and not worry about buttons, cuffs or tucking in. The Poncho says “Laid back and unkempt”, but without sacrificing “Ready to go to a jam-band concert”.
The reason I ask is that there are two women who work in my building that wear a poncho most days. Yes, two. I don’t know which company(ies) they work for, but they are in my building. How do two women over the age of 30 find themselves employed in the same building in downtown Chicago at the same time, both adorned in Ponchos you ask? That is a question for Stephen Hawking or perhaps Jean Paul Sartre, not me. But they are here. Both carry themselves with an air of slovenliness and lack of hygiene, though they take different routes to the same destination. One gal opts to shower, but never comb or in any other way take care of her own hair. The other rather looks showered, but always with hair that looks as though it was doused with bacon grease each morning and combed straight back, like a longer styling of Pat Reilly’s. The latter is also seen loitering about local businesses and common areas, eating and drinking Starbucks milkshakes. She is perpetually running her ample mouth, voicing her disdain for everyone in her personal life and her coworkers. I imagine that she is an incredibly popular person in the office. My guess is that the only time anyone speaks to her is at the annual office Christmas (sorry, Holiday–thanks feminists) party when the veterans try to see if they can get the Fuckin’ New Guy drunk enough to roll in the straw with her. Say what you will about their hair or their personality, you cannot say these two lasses aren’t comfortable under their well-worn wool ponchos in festive Mexican stitch. Whether its riding the bus, sipping your 6th Venti Frozen Caramel Macchiato of the day, or just hanging out in the lobby bitching up a storm, you can go about your day unfettered by the likes of the vile sleeve or the sinister button. And when Cinco de Mayo rolls around each year, you’re fucking well ready.
PS–The first person to comment with the correct origin of the line: “Oh yeah. Isn’t she a big ‘ol fat person?” wins absolutely nothing.