Men's Wearhouse and Joseph A. Banks are the twin horsemen of the suburban fashion apocalypse. If you've ever been in a suburban wedding party, you're nodding your head in silent, sorrowful agreement. You remember it like it was yesterday. You join the other groomsmen on the pilgrimage to some strip mall to get your suit fitted by a nineteen year-old dude with spiky hair named Tre. Tre means well, but he puts you in a suit that would make a potato sack look form-fitting. You gently mention that you would like if you didn't look like an 11 year-old who borrowed his dad's suit for church. Tre says, "Oh, you want to look European?" He returns with pants a half-size smaller, and rather than put off  much needed catch up drinks at T.G.I. Fridays, you settle for the terrible suit.

I ask the people in charge of these corporations, how are we supposed to bed bridesmaids wearing suits only slightly less comical than a vintage David Byrne suit?