I’ve bought some new pants.
Not trousers, Americans. Pants are underwear. That’s what pants are. NOT trousers. So stop it.
I like my new pants. They fit me nicely, and were not overpriced.
I’m not one of those men who can see the logic of paying a premium for a brand; they’re pants. I don’t care if Calvin Klein designed them, I don’t care if Hugo Boss has approved them, or if Jeff Banks has exhaled into each individual packet of pants. I just want cheap, comfortable pants.
It’s not much to ask.
Luckily, as it’s not too much to ask, it’s not too much to expect either, and I’m rarely disappointed as such. Hurrah!
Except now and then a manufacturer will decide that the most important thing their pants should have is not a pleasing design, a quality cloth, nor enough elasticity to cope with my fluctuating waistline (though frequently they have all of these things).
Now and then a manufacturer will decided that the most important thing their pants should have is a size label which is made of a material scratchier than fibreglass. And to stitch it in along all four edges in such a way as to make it impossible to remove without all but destroying the waistband.
This material has a unique quality; it is able to tell when I’m in a public place and can pretend to be as soft as duck down for hours and hours until I am in public. As soon as I’m out there though, it changes.
And I’m trying not to scratch my behind. If I do it too much, people are going to think I have worms. They’re going to worry that I’m going to sit dragging my arse along their floor, trying to get some release from the little worms sticking their heads out of my posterior.
I’m really suffering.
And it’s all down to underpants manufacturers.
Why do they do it?
My arse is clean.
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