What is that sweatbands can’t do?
Ease racial tensions, you say? Fuck that: a man in a sweatband is my brother, no matter the color of his skin (and as long as he’s not Swiss) or place of birth (again: fuck the Swiss for undisclosed reasons.)
A sweatband can be used as a slingshot to hunt particularly fragile creatures, as a tourniquet for a muppet, a headband for a baby, a skirt for a groupie.
The world’s worst towel, a piece of non-essential equipment to leave in a tree at eye-level for the search time to track you when you’re being forced deeper and deeper into the outback by the world’s meanest Aborigines, a hammock for your testicles.
You can keep some drugs in there, you can mark your pool chair at a posh Caribbean resort where the really important black folks still dress up like British dandies from the 1890’s and it just looks ludicrous, you can snap it at a fox’s tush so that she might know you favor her.
A mop, a jizz-mop, a chamois, emergency toilet paper, hemorrhoid pillow for a man with a tiny asshole.
In China, the sweatband is the sign of life; in Korea, it stands for death; in Japan, they cover only their genitals with the sweatbands and read tentacle porn while claiming the sweatband thing was entirely invented by Japan, certainly not the Koreans, who we all know are savage, ill-bred pig-dogs.
(An aside: don’t even eat at an Asian fusion restaurant. You can’t have sushi and mandoo on the same plate: these people have hated each other since time began with a passion that white men only attain when reading the New York Times.)
What if a impromptu game of Pin the Tail on the Donkey breaks out? What if you’re at a taping of Let’s Make a Deal and Monty Hall asks you if you have a sweatband? What if you need to shoot heroin and/or crystal meth?
“Hey, you know that guy Jimmy?”
“He’s tallish? Dark hair. White but not really white.”
“Always weara a sweatband.”
“Sweatband Jimmy! Why didn’t you say so!”
All right, stop this.