Its High Time we Impose a Ceiling on Pant Sizes

The G8 nations need to make this priority #1 in the next gathering. They can get to boozy dinners and whoremongering after a decisive vote is cast in this all-too-important issue which could ultimately lead to the demise of planet earth. I don’t know who makes pants which would come close to fitting pigs such as this, but it is time we impose some ethical guidelines on them. We simply cannot be exposed to such human carnage as in the example to the left. I was in line buying a banana for breakfast on Friday morning, getting money out of my wallet at the checkout counter, and as my gaze raised in a trajectory from pocket to register there encountered my sightline a vision most ghastly. A woman (or sow, depending on the setting) was buying her “breakfast” at the same location. Her legs looked like someone was trying smuggle in 100 pounds of raw dough in two 20 pound sacks. I don’t know by what miracle of modern Chinese fabric-making the fat was held at bay by the fiber, but a mere touch of the pant at any spot with a pin knife would have resulted in an explosion of pillowy flesh sure to have concussed the knife-wielder instantly upon contact. The only comparison I could make was walking into an Italian deli in Cleveland’s Little Italy when I was younger and seeing the driying cheeses and meats hanging from the ceiling in cloth sacks. That is precisely what it looked like. The brutal assault on my eyes was by no means concluded. The two aforementioned bufala mozarella sacks gave way to an ass which simultaneously defied Darwin, Einstein and God. I’ll refer to it reverently as “The Continental Shelf”. You could have literally taken a cafeteria tray full of food and a pint of beer and set both comfortably and safely on the “top ass”, taking your repast at leisure with no fear of spillage, lest Oprah say something funny to our heroine and cause a ripple of pig flesh sure to send your meal into outer space. If you laid her on her stomach (and mind you, we’d need two well-outfitted Land Rovers with sharpshooters and rhino-tranquilizers at the ready to accomplish this) and tried to measure the height of her ass from floor to its lofty apex, we’d need not a ruler nor yardstick, but rather a small ladder and tape measure. I do not know who would create pants with such unearthly demensions, but damn that company to hell and back. It was no shock to any unfortunates present what she sought for sustenance: A ham-product, egg and cheese croissaint; a danish so large as to prevent closure of the plastic container which sought to control it; and the final insult–a bottle of water. As if causing all who view you to want to race for the nearest log fire and use the reddest of burning embers to smote their eyes from their skull weren’t enough, you have to fucking clog landfills as well in a piss-poor attempt at “eating light”. Back with you beast! Back to Tanzania and the Serengeti plain to wrestle with your equals the hippo, the croc and the wildebeest for prime sunning upon an exposed rain pool rock! Let not us, the innocent tax payer, be burdened with the cost of sawing off your diabetic limbs. Let the noble croc relieve you of your foul-smelling foot when blood ceases to make its way to that formerly useful appendage. But alas the weak-willed take no responsibility for their own gluttony. Therefore I look to the pant-maker to end this travesty. Force these beasts into REI to buy tents to cover themselves and thus disallowed in respectable establishments.
As she wallowed off to her cubicle to enjoy her 2,500 calorie breakfast I was on the floor dying rapidly like Colonel Kurtz, able only to utter the phrase, “The horror! The horror!”.

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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2 Responses to Its High Time we Impose a Ceiling on Pant Sizes

  1. stagi says:

    Beautiful. Just beautiful.

  2. Shannon says:

    One of my favorites ever.

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