Friday, March 02, 2012

Conversation with my trousers

Getting dressed this morning, I pulled out a pair of jeans that fit perfectly well this summer. Getting them on and buttoned today happend only after a long and uncivil battle.

PANTS: It’s not going to happen. You have allowed your butt to re-bigulate.

ME: Nonsense. You are just being unwieldy because the dryer got the better of you.

PANTS: The only one of us to change sizes was you, cookie-eater.

ME: Your lack of cooperation is nothing a little hopping and yanking can’t overcome.

PANTS: I’m pleased to see you getting some exercise, tubby.

ME: What are you talking about? I am a size 2!

PANTS: I think you are confused. I am a size 2. It says so on my label. You on the other hand are not a size 2.

ME: What is your problem? Why won’t you zip?

PANTS: Listen, if you must backbend over the staircase railing, the zipping simply wasn’t meant to be.

ME: Why I oughtta . . .

PANTS: Are you threatening me?

ME: Maybe I am.

PANTS: You have an unfair advantage; you are much larger than I.

ME: aaaargh …. hoooo-hoo-hoo …nnnnnnngggg … and BUTTONED!

PANTS: You feel like a big woman now? It’s only appropriate.


PANTS: You are not going to like this.

ME: Whaaa . . . ? [passes out]


Anonymous said...

Apoxia-induced delirium? Or just business as usual?

Reluctant Kerry said...

Apoxia is for sea level sissies and the aged.