The Importance of Inspecting Garments Before PurchasingDear Woman Who Ripped My Pants,
I will begin this letter by asking you one simple question, of which I realize will get no reply, because after all, you have no idea who I am. But that’s beside the point. I am humoring myself, as I often do, and am so filled with rage, this seems a much more appropriate way to vent my frustration and disgust than, say, punching my husband’s forehead.(which, by the way, did help heal my spider bites…I highly recommend to attached women everywhere that they strike their significant others in the forehead -- repeatedly if need be -- when in dire need of a physical or mental pick-me-up).
Ah, beautiful digression. How I love to digress. I may even digress from the original digression, just for the fun of it. Watch as I digress effortlessly, feel the burn, the confusion and giddy tummy tickles as I spin you round and round on the fiery Ferris wheel of digressional pyrotechnics.
I enjoy breakfast sausages!
All right, then. My unanswerable question is this: Why, if you have a size twenty- four ass, would you even think of stuffing it into a pair of size sevens?
Honestly, I’m curious.
There I was, all excited -- almost hysterical, really -- to be returning the dreadful Ass Pants From Hell, to be browsing in a real clothing store that does not sell knitted vests, appliquéd sweaters or polyester stretch pants, a store that has not a single smiley face sign advertising falling prices or zombified old man shambling toward me when I walk in the door. Yes, there I was, thrilled to be rid of the Ass Pants, feeling good that I made the sales clerk laugh when I explained to her why I was returning the Ass Pants, my palms sweaty as I perused the acres of filmy peasant tops and sweet little skirts, the fabrics of cotton and silk and other fibers made by God, when I saw my dream pants.
They were magnificent. Lightweight denim capris, form-fitting at the hips (not pubic-area low, thank you very much), with big swingy legs that I just knew would swish about my calves in a most flirtatious manner. They would look perfect with the cute black, swingy, three-tiered, ruffled tank top I'd just purchased, as well as my fabulous new gem-encrusted Baby Phat thong wedges. I was thinking how goshdurned hot I was going to look at the party this coming Saturday.
I had to have those pants, was so nervous they wouldn't have my size, I nearly suffocated from dry-mouth. I tentatively poked through the rack, peered at the tags, my breathing becoming more labored with every wrong size, when lo and behold, there was one last size seven stuffed between the ones and twelves and fours. Halle-freaking-lujah. Trumpets announced the coming of Christ, rainbows appeared above me, and I think I actually had an orgasm, although it's quite possible it was only incontinence. Anyway, I bought the pants. Brought them home. Stood before the mirror and slipped into them, made sweet love them as I twirled while fastening the outside button, admired the flirty swish against my calves, and then...
You know where I’m going with this, don’t you, bitch? Sure you do. You know perfectly well what I’m about to write next, because it was your ass that destroyed my dream. It was your delusional ego that caused the pants to fall apart, your skeevy, rotten, dishonest own self that popped the inside button from its root, pulled the lower part of the zipper from its bed, snatched the belt loop from the waistband as you attempted to stuff your junk into what should have been my trunk, then, upon realizing what you did, whipped off the pants, rebuttoned the outside button, zipped what was left of the zipper, patted down the hanging belt loop, and hung the pants back on the rack like the criminal scurvy-ridden cur you are.
And now you must die.