Assless fat-guy clown pants.
But let’s face it: the reality isn’t anywhere near as terrible as the image that popped into your mind when you read that opening line, now, is it? When I finally invent Mental Bleach I’ll be rich. Rich, I tell you!
What is terrible is that I only discovered the tear in the seat of my trousers – clean from from crotch to waistband, mind you – yesterday. After going out on the town the night before.
A friend of mine who shall remain shameless drove me off to Twin Peaks (a sort of Hooters knockoff, basically to a titty bar what My Little Pony is to Secretariat) , in order to pick my brain about a project he’s starting. After dinner the two of us and another friend repaired to the Flying Star downtown. Therefore, knowing how prevalent security cameras are in our current world, unless I somehow managed to rip my drawers after I got home, somewhere someone has captured priceless video of my tighty whities.
Yeah. At least I was wearing tighty whities, right? And my pals thought the reason none of the waitresses hung out with us was that the place was crowded. Ah, but it was really me who was hanging out.
The good news is, I’ve been wearing shorts out for the most part, since it’s gotten pretty hot here. Also I’ve sort of needed new pants since I got out of the hospital. I’ve yet to buy new ones, in part because I’m broke, in part because I admit I’ve gotten a huge kick out of having my pants fit like me a mailbag. In all truth it’s kind of helped my morale, helped me keep focus on keeping the weight off, and eventually losing more, with solid evidence of how much I have lost.
So in case any of you were wishing I blogged more … cured you of that, now, didn’t I?