Let me tell you,
Dear reader,
Let me tell you a thing or two about my favourite pants.
And when I say pants, I’m not meaning underpants, or panties in that English sort of way.
But when you’re as much as an arse as I am, it pays to be such an arse in nice pants.
I am a walking talking testament to the fact that an arse in nice pants is still, at his core, always and very much an arse.
My favourite pants are religious ones.
They’re holy.
Filled with holes.
And these holes?
They’re hand stitched and repaired with flair and care.
Happier than a Webber with a pile of wood.
But these pants?
I’ve farted the arse clear outta them.
I destroyed the very fibres of their being with the searing power of my arsehole.
And despite their mistreatment?
These pants persist. They last longer than a happy camper with a pile of wood.
Stitched together with love by my dear wife.
They are like golden cables of needlework stringing together the lower curves of the pocket areas. Without these vital supports, my arse would fly as freely as a drunken housefly with a pile of wood.
My pants are aged past-perfection steak.
They’re past prime and just hanging on.
Merely living comes with its fair share of wear and tear.
Each day can feel like a fight with a ball of angry wasps with a pile of wood.
But long term love isn’t just about cute cute buns.
It’s more an act of repair.
So remember dear reader,
If you rip your pants in public,
You may leave others in stitches.
But it pays to know someone who can stitch your pants.