The only day of the week better than Saturday is one that technically does not fall on the calendar. Or the Gregorian one, at least, and it is called Plaidurday. It occurs every year on the weekend after Christmas and prompts that you click through a slideshow of beautiful people and things not while hungover but rather just because. You are also expected to sing through the bravura of Vampire Weekend’s “Holiday,” constantly replacing the word “holiday” with “plaidurday” until you’ve sung it so many times you have completely lost sense of tonal appropriation.
On the day, you are further expected to dress up in as many layers of the ubiquitous kind-of tartan (often manipulated, replicated, but never successfully duplicated) pattern that your closet currently boasts. Then you are to do a stock check.
How many layers are you wearing? If it is upward of six, you’ve done the print decently proud. If it is less, however, you might want to spend more time watching Jared Leto as Jordan Catalano, or Alexander McQueen as himself and his mental objects (the ones that are revealed as laudable runway models) to determine the manifold additional ways that you too, shall wear thee tartan.
After you’ve completed the math portion of your day, you’re expected to run around yelling “where the fuck is your plaid?” at any uninformed pedestrians who appear to have missed the memo on the historic jour de many checks.
Of course, we would not expect you to celebrate a day (especially one that proposes you demonize the ignorant) that you know nothing about so here is the brief telling of its past events that put the history in the anterior historic:
First, there were the Scots. And then? Then there were the hipsters.
The end. Drops mic. Wear your plaid, send a selfie, call the Man Repeller hotline and break.