Nobody looks good in American Apparel. Let’s get that out of the way first.
Practically all of their clothing, from their spelunking v-neck t-shirts to their absurd high waisted neon-glitter-sailor shorts are designed for people that do not exist. The ideal American Apparel customer is seven feet tall, weighs ninety pounds, and could blow away in a strong gale.
I find it hard to believe that they even have a team of designers at their company. In my mind, their collections are created by five people that stay up all night drinking Carlo Rossi and watching European snuff films. After their minds are twisted enough, they put on blindfolds and write down the first thing outfit they can think of that causes sexual thought. After the garments are created, they choose one of the hundreds of starving runaways that they keep in a dungeon underneath their headquarters to model it in their barren apartment under a single 40 watt bulb.
People who wear American Apparel know that it looks bad. That’s the frightening thing. Somewhere, there is a population of people who look in their closet and think “Today, I am going to dress like a meth-addict-glam-rocker with a history of child sexual abuse and EVERYONE WILL LOOK AT ME.”
That’s the ethos of American Apparel. EVERYBODY FUCKING LOOK AT HOW BADLY DRESSED I AM! If American Apparel were an actual person that came to your party, he would be the one that intentionally urinated on himself while telling all the girls a story about the time his mother walked in on him masturbating to a picture of Dick Cheney. I could almost respect something so crass if the clothes weren’t so expensive and poorly made. Those sweatshop kids in Malaysia made great sneakers for Nike, so you can’t tell me that American Apparel is incapable of finding child labor with some damn standards.