The number of slacks, pants and jeans in my closet is dwindling.
It all happened one day at work. (Cue the dream sequence.)
I was leaving a meeting and only had one exit point: squeezing between a chair and a chest of drawers. I sucked in my gut, turned sideways, and crab-walked a few steps. So far, so good!
But just as I thought I was in the clear, my right cheek's pocket caught on the drawer's knob and ripped a huge hole in my pants.
The guy behind me made a helpful and observant comment: "Dude! Your pants just got ripped! That sucks for you!"
Shocked, awed and drafty, I felt the hole in my pants, then jotted a note to remember to wear underwear from now on.
Fast forward to last week. I was lounging in my jeans during my Casual Friday lounge-a-thon, when all of a sudden I realized that the seam at the crotch of my pants had torn.
(This is a common occurrence for us Tanory men - our pants can't contain our crotches. We either have uncommonly large genitalia, or we need to select smaller cucumbers to stuff down the front of our pants.)
Betty was not as pleased about my seamless crotch as I would have liked her to be. Instead of enjoying the easy access, she instead threw my jeans in the trash. And then to stop me from taking my jeans from out of the trash while she wasn't looking, she dumped the contents of an old salsa jar on them.
Betty went to a few stores to buy new jeans for me, but I'm a weird shape - 35 waist, 29 length. Most stores sell pants in this size, but they don't sell jeans.
So that means that this Friday I'll be wearing my aluminum foil-wrapped cucumber under some red shorts. My apologies in advance to all of my coworkers.
To Serve Man, with Software
2 weeks ago