Jude Laloue wore pink socks and a lavender shirt, and swore that if anybody ever suggested he wear plaid, he would personally boil that person in hydrogenated oil. The no-plaid rule extended to household décor, the only exception being Jude’s Russian wax-dyed eggs, which had such wide bands you would barely call it true plaid.

Jude was a born fashion designer, and he had a newspaper article to prove it. An excerpt read:

“I know he’s only 5 months old, but his haute couture is to die for,” said Jude’s mother, Lalinda Laloue. The babe in arms recently showed his spring collection for Paris fashion week, and the City of Love will never be the same. Rumor had it that his Uncle Simon, a reclusive man who wears his entire 153 election button collection on his jeans jacket, had designed the collection.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Simon, peeking out of his Happy Springs trailer at the hoard of fashion reporters gathered on his Astroturf patch. “If I could sew, I’d fix the holes in my socks.” He declined to present said socks to the reporters, who were left to interview Lalinda.

“How does Jude design clothes when he can barely roll over?” they asked.

“He points. I do what he says.” She demonstrated by holding up various fabric swatches until Jude waved a fat fist in the air. “Cotton tulle and leather for summer,” she said, her voice mixed with surprise and wonder. “I wouldn’t have thought of that. But he’ll make it work.”

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