The Essence of Style

I consider myself a fashionable young man. But my little Claire Bear doesn't agree.

When I got home from work, she met me with a smile and arms extended, like usual, but then her body drooped, and she made a face of disgust.

"What's wrong?" I asked her.

"You look so..."

"So what?"

"You look so...blah"

"Blah?" I asked, shocked. I've seen VH1, I know what it means to be stylin' and I found it hard to believe my daughter thought I looked blah. "How so, honey?"

"Like, I don't know. You're just blah. It's like you spilled a carton of blah on your blah clothes and then blahly ate them."

"Could you stop saying blah?"

"Sure. You should come up to my room tonight and I can give you a makeover."

"No, thanks. I think Daddy can handle it on his own."

She just stared at me.

"Well, I think I'm going to call it a night," I said, breaking the silence. "Time to watch The Colbert Report and catch some Z's"

I walked into my bedroom and my wife was lying in bed, petting Mr. Muggles. "Do you think I'm stylish?" I asked.

"Um, well, not really. You're more of a..."

"A what?"

"Well, you look...yadda"

"Yadda? As in yadda, yadda, yadda?"

"Oh, no, not that one. The other one."

"Blah?"

"Yes! That's it. You look blah. Blah, blah, blah."