When I was young and still had some standards there were things I’d promised myself that I’d never do. Like live in a cardboard box, spend time complaining about my aches and pains or wearing clothes that had stains of questionable origin.
The stains of questionable origin rule went out the window about ten years ago and was replaced promptly by the “no ripped or outrageously torn garments” substitution.
Today, ladies and gentlemen I broke that cardinal rule by having a full section of my pants tear away from my body after getting caught on something sticking out dangerously from a door frame.
Just like the house that fell right the fuck off of itself but with no potential casualties and fewer visits by the building inspector to cite me for code violations.
Anyway, I’ve gone back to my flannel pajamas for the remainder of the afternoon soon after realizing I had tired of the relentless work ethic needed to build and run the DQ Blizzard maker and the Crayola Crayon melting factory. Or “BURN FACTORY FOR SMALL HANDS” as it’s otherwise known.
That, and I’ve determined that I don’t like the way “real” pants feel anymore.
I’m not the only good for nothing lay about strutting around in my pj’s you know.
Not five minutes ago I spied the only French lesbian I’ve ever known (she’s a combo of Peppermint Patty and a slightly less attractive Marion Cotillard) walking her dogs in her striped flannel nightwear and heavy winter boots.