Ode to a Pants-Free World
If I seem a bit angry in this Nah’msayin, you’ll have to forgive me. I was wearing pants when I wrote it.
See, I hate pants. I hate everything about them–the way my ass crack always shows up at unexpected times and in ways that would boggle the mind of a quantum physicist.
I hate that every 10 years, we all arbitrarily decide to swing the fashion pendulum from Hammer-baggie to hipster-hopeyoudontlikebloodcirculationinyourgenitals.
But mostly I hate that pants make me hate my grandparents.
I love them. I truly do. But having fled the grimness of war-torn Europe, where a power-mad fascist made everyone wear drab pants (my knowledge of history is horrible), you’d think they’d go somewhere where pants are not mandatory throughout the Hoth-esque hell of winter.
Australia. California. Congo. Whatever.
Instead, they looked at a map and said, “Let’s go to the country that contains Winnipeg. Except we’ll go to a part that has occasional weather that doesn’t require pants, JUST TO TEASE OUR GRANDKIDS WITH THE POSSIBILITY OF A PANTS-FREE EXISTENCE, BUT THEN WINTER COMES AND BOOM! PANTS!”
In conclusion, Levi Strauss was an asshole.
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