Thursday, April 02, 2009

They Were The Best of Pants, They Were The Worst of Pants

Aaron Bockover no longer has my pants! This is an important development.

I am an uno-pantalones kind of muchacho. I own many pairs but I wear only one: The Chosen Trousers. I know exactly what I want from a pair of jeans and I usually don't find it. An entire day of shopping may only yield two "good enough" purchases, of which, only one will grace my ass day in and day out.

Just before going to that place I've been for 9 months, I assembled a task force of trusted friends and embarked on a mission: find Scott a New Pair of Pants. No establishment was spared, no jean unmolested. Every 30-32 in the Mall of America had my butt in it.

After a wearying blur of denim, two victors emerged: the Lucky Jeans that I really, really liked and they're not perfect but they're about as close to perfect as any jeans I've ever tried on, and the other pair which I also liked and they would make a great backup pair. Damn good work, people, I told my task force. Damn good work.

I was all set to live happily ever after with my nearly-perfect jeans, but AARON BOCKOVER had other designs!!1!!1 I was at his place getting ready to leave the country forever when my pretty-perfect pants mysteriously forgot to get back into my luggage. A LIKELY STORY! Of course, you and I both know what really happened, don't we? Baby-faced Bockover, wild with jealousy, took 'em! I have reports that he was soon there after seen around Boston in a fabulous new pair of Lucky Jeans, and that they made his ass look GREAT!

Meanwhile, I was half a world away stuck with the fucking backups. If any one thing can be blamed for the failure of my business... it would probably be the GLOBAL ECONOMIC CLUSTERFUCK. But a close second is that pair of pants. Attempts were made to emancipate the pants from Bockover's belt, all of which met with suspicious failure.

Well friend, the veil of tears is lifted at last. Last Saturday I popped by Boston and was reunited with my fairly flawless slacks. JOY! Aaron then proceeded to treat me to dinner with Miguel. He hid it well, but I caught that solitary tear silently rolling down his baby-faced cheek as he gazed mournfully at the fine, fine denim clinging tightly to another man's cheeks. Au revoir mon ami, glistened the tear. He then wiped it away under the pretence of adjusting his glasses and ordered another quesadilla.

Bonjour à nouveau, mon ami!