Back on the Wagon or how I found myself with a lot more spare time on my hands.

I found a hole in my pants today. To be completely honest, I found a new hole - one that that should neither be there due to design nor common decency. I wish I could say that this was an uncommon occurence for me, but that would make me a liar. For some reason (I happen to blame my ghetto booty) I have laid waste to almost all of my pants. I am the Shiva the Destroyer of the jeans world. My only pants that I own which do not have a hole in them somewhere are on either sides of acceptability - either they are dress pants or jogging pants. All of my jeans, khakis and corduroys appear as though they have been attacked by crotch-loving moths. Maybe it is time for me, as my forefathers did many years past, to rebuff the convention of pants. Kilt-wearing is nothing new to me and the cold grasp of winter wind would feel invigorating on my genitalia. Of course, ladies - long frustrated with the difficulties of undoing jean buttons while in the throes of lust - would flock to me, attracted by the ease at which they could locate my weapons of mass seduction (I'm alluding to my genitalia). During the summertime, I would be forced to wear a sarong - with lighter fabrics but ones which would firmly silhouette my granite-like butt cheeks. Then again, the option of nudity is always available. However, I would not want to embarass any garden hoses out there.