I'm sure PETA's got beef (no pun intended) with anyone who wears any sort of animal hide, but you never hear about them throwing paint at the all leather and suede uppers of dudes at Supreme drops do you? It seems PETA reserves its true outrage—its complete and utter disgust—for fur. Personally, I'd like to think I'd never wear fur, but I also like to think I love animals. THEN I EAT BONE MARROW AND DIP MY FRENCH FRIES IN SOME FUCKING FOIE GRAS, so, obviously, I can't help myself. In fact, I've been known to turn into a velociraptor at fancy dinners.
Anyhow, The Guardian is here to fill us in on this nightclub that, thanks to PETA's efforts, just announced it would bar entrance to anyone wearing fur. TAKE THAT, GRANDMAS AND SIDE CHICKS OF RICH GRANDPAS. Everyone else that would go to a nightclub in a fur coat isn't wearing a real fur coat to begin with and, thereby, is still getting in. Evidently, PETA is against draping dead animals on your body, but supports abominations like bottle service and VIP hostesses. H&M and Diesel deserve true props for taking a real stand and not using fur. AYO H&M, FUCK THEM KIDS IN BANGLADESH THOUGH, RIGHT? Ralph Lauren recently banned fur too, which is whatever. Everyone knows you wear your 'Lo underneath a gigantic Avirex jacket that took 5.36 cows to produce.
The real takeaway from this is that PETA takes donated furs and uses them as bedding for animals in shelters! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, PETA? YOU FORCE ABANDONED, MOST LIKELY ABUSED ANIMALS TO SLEEP ON TOP OF ANOTHER ANIMAL'S HIDE IN A PRISON CELL WHILE THEY WAIT FOR SOME HORRIBLE COUPLE THAT THINKS ITS SCARS FROM FIGHTING FOR ITS LIFE ARE "CUTE" AND "ENDEARING" TO COME ADOPT THEM IN A SELF-SERVING EFFORT TO MORALLY BIG DICK THEIR NEIGHBORS?
The article ends with a certified banger, featuring five opinions on fur that range from "fur is awesome" to "foxes are anally electrocuted." Somehow, Yeezus even gets brought into this conversation, but I'm the wrong dude to comment on that as I would totally wear matching fur coats with my boo while we sipped ice cold pinot, ripped lines of cokes and bathed in the tears of our haterz. Don’t worry, my rotisserie chicken is typically free range.