There is something truly evil about plaid.
It might look like just a crisscrossed grid of colors, but in my experience, much like comets and black cats, plaid is a harbinger of doom. The amateur bagpiper who played at my grandpa’s funeral wore plaid. The scratchy suit I was stuffed into three Christmases in a row was plaid. Dad’s boss, who promoted Dad and is therefore ultimately responsible for the disaster my life has become, probably wears plaid boxer shorts. The evil has to be hiding somewhere.