Thursday, September 11, 2003

Pants Anxiety

Most of my years Sub-18 were defined by a identifying flap of leather (or whatever) sewn to the backs of my denims--HUSKY.

To this day (15 years later) I still have the hardest time making myself buy new pants...the psychological damage created by my (then) physiological make-up has not improved even as I have shaped up and grown older. As my pants, dungarees, trousers, short-pants, pantalones, clamdiggers, lowriders, what have you, get more and more threadbare and scandalous it takes a Herculean effort (and written warnings from my employers, neighbors, and the local Thin Blue Liners on how I am dangerously teetering on the edge of public indecency) to drag my (almost fully exposed) ass down to a clothing store to slap the ching down for some new sub-torso garments.

Worrying whether I am still the same size as the last time I purchased pants...oh sweet Zeus WHY DID I EAT THAT WHOLE BAG OF DORITOS?!?


It's that bad.

To rectify this situation I am strongly considering foregoing pants altogether (in the all-together...snort) and switching to 24-7 swaddling as my clothing of choice.

Or maybe some Lion Skins a la Hercules*?

Since this new choice in attire will render me unable to retain my current line of work I'm pondering a new career as a lakeside prophet or free-lance adventurer.

All I need to do after this is acquire some kick-ass sandals don't want people to see my feet.


(problems, problems, problems)

*But any Trials my Father puts me through had better not involve getting any where near a stable. Horses (and their copious excrement) scare the...heh...shit out of me. Knowing my Father any Tasks he requests of me would involve getting up on a ladder and cleaning out his gutters OR trimming limbs off the pine tree in his front yard. Some Action THAT would be, eh? Not even suitable for Modern Day Mythology...


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