Dear Christy,

My wife bought a pair of those platform Crocs and they are the most hideous things I’ve ever seen. Not to mention, they’re $1,000 and bright yellow. It’s her money, so I’ll not balk, but I am so embarrassed when she wears them. So ugly.

— Not a fashinisto, also not blind

Crocodile Tears:

Aw. I’m sorry buddy. Do her blowjobs lack enthusiasm, too?

Politically correct reality: It’s her money, she can wear whatever she wants, I bet you get a new Playstation every time it upgrades, blah, blah, blah, so on, so forth, et cetera.

Reality: She’s an asshole for paying $1,000 for foam anything. (Unless it’s a big foam pit inside a bar. Or a magic mattress. Or a house?)

Revised reality: She’s an asshole for paying a grand for Crocs.

These Balenciaga and Crocs platform sandals — first of all, Dick Nixon, are $850 — were, I quote from some lady named Jane, “the most talked-about design to step off the Spring ’18 runway.”

People were like, “Holy shit, is she wearing a yellow double-decker bus from Hamburg? Or a snowbank that a dog soaked? We can’t tell, but it’s breathtaking.”

The crowds went wild. Anna Wintour rolled a spliff in Gucci silk and exclaimed, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a Croc, asking it to be high fashion.”

Then Jesus enthroned it as the hottest trend. Us Weekly front-paged the shit, grandma knitted it into a throw pillow, and all of a sudden, Post Malone was strutting around in his own signature pair. Remember when George Dubya Bush rocked Crocs with socks? He was a poet.

So don’t be embarrassed, man. Wife is at the top of her fashion game.

Back in my day, we wore synthetic resin on our feet in the form of PVC plastic jellies. (Not marijuana resin; we wore that on our tongues.) I actually have a photo of myself inside Xanadu wearing purple sparkly resin kicks. (Did anyone else go to the Xanadu foam house in Wisconsin Dells in the ’80s? It was like the original platform Crocs.)

Trends come and go. If your wife wants to look like Pikachu’s mauling her foot, well, somebody has to. Hopefully she wears them to do the Roger Rabbit and sing, “I’ve Got the Power.”

I’m saving my money for bong resin shoes.

Dear Christy,

I was a forerunner of passenger vans, but that doesn’t mean I like to be drowned in hippie shit. Like, does everyone have to dress me in stupid bumper stickers?

—Volkswagen Van

Van, Man:

Sorry, dude(tte).

You were launched during the hippie counterculture, so people would use you to pound out babies, eat Owsley’s treats and braid each other’s pubes. And although you can jam in about 1,200 dreadlocks (60 per head?), the fewer people you tote, the more gas mileage you get.

But if there are 20 altruists all up in your cavity, that’s hard labor on your little legs — however, more hippies to split the gas bill.

It’s just your exterior that’s being tarnished. At least you can get high amid journeys of self-discovery. Plus, you’ve rode shotgun to many a gangbang. So, free porn.

This column needs to get laid. It just answered a question from a van.

Read more Fantz: Stalk her:

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