Karen Ramirez, "Looking For Love (Trouser Enthusiasts' Joy Of Sex Mix)" (1998)
I have new pants, and I love 'em. They're black and subtly pinstriped, sit low enough on my hips that I look less fat than I actually am, and they cup my ass like its goblets were grown and harvested in Georgia.
They're fancy pants, too, so the pockets have to be unstitched by their lucky owners. But I've forgotten to do 'em all. The side pockets, yes, but the back two pockets remain sewn shut, and here I am at work. It wouldn't be that difficult to stick my finger back there and carefully unseam myself from nave to chaps, but I don't want to risk ruining these lovely trousers.
I've contemplated closing my office door, removing my pants, and cutting the pockets open with a proper pair of scissors. But you just know that, even if the cleaning lady doesn't walk in suddenly, her colleague will choose that moment to rise up from the ground in a crane in order to finally scrap the century-old fungi off my window panes, get an eyeful, and thereby plummet to an undignified death. I also thought about giving a box cutter to a coworker and asking him to do me the favor, but that tableau -- me with my ass sticking up in the air, while he takes a blade to it -- just seems like a sitcom misunderstanding waiting to happen.
I guess I'll wait till I get home.
I have new pants, and I love 'em. They're black and subtly pinstriped, sit low enough on my hips that I look less fat than I actually am, and they cup my ass like its goblets were grown and harvested in Georgia.
They're fancy pants, too, so the pockets have to be unstitched by their lucky owners. But I've forgotten to do 'em all. The side pockets, yes, but the back two pockets remain sewn shut, and here I am at work. It wouldn't be that difficult to stick my finger back there and carefully unseam myself from nave to chaps, but I don't want to risk ruining these lovely trousers.
I've contemplated closing my office door, removing my pants, and cutting the pockets open with a proper pair of scissors. But you just know that, even if the cleaning lady doesn't walk in suddenly, her colleague will choose that moment to rise up from the ground in a crane in order to finally scrap the century-old fungi off my window panes, get an eyeful, and thereby plummet to an undignified death. I also thought about giving a box cutter to a coworker and asking him to do me the favor, but that tableau -- me with my ass sticking up in the air, while he takes a blade to it -- just seems like a sitcom misunderstanding waiting to happen.I guess I'll wait till I get home.
posted by Brittle-Lemon at
1:00 PM
5 Comments:
nice image to go with that comment!
By
xolondon, at 10:07 AM
Well, I wouldn't mind a pair of pants made of lovely white endangered polar bear wool. Mmm, soft and fleecy.
By
Brittle, at 8:01 PM
as a child I had a blanket made of fake polar bear fur. White and fluffy. I used to wrap it around my head. That is all I want to leave you with... say nothing.
By
xolondon, at 9:54 AM
I see. When you were young, you were Bjork.
By
Brittle, at 12:40 PM
Once I got past the confusing image of harvesting goblets (aren't they all mouth-blown crystal??) I found myself chortling away at your invocation of Ms. Rubbisshh, the Omnipresent Window-cleaner and, of course, the box-cutter.
The solution to all this is simple: buy a seam-ripper. No home should be without one.
By
Anonymous, at 11:43 PM
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