And Now … Pants in the News
By Jim Shahin
ITEM: The national outbreak of sagging pants as a fashion statement has led one small Louisiana town to pass a law that metes out jail time to those whose languishing legwear reveals the much-reviled plumber's crack. It is unclear whether the law applies to actual plumbers.
ITEM: A Washington, D.C., man, distraught over the loss of a pair of beloved trousers, took his local dry cleaner to court. Asking for a $54 million settlement, he hoped to sue the pants off 'em. But, to extend these groan-inducing puns further yet, he was the one caught with his pants down, as late-night comedians made him the butt of their jokes.
ITEM: In a sad development, the already high price of dressing down has soared. It seems that the cheap-chic thrift-store look, which itself cost a pretty penny to achieve, is succumbing to designer blue jeans that cost upward of $240 per pair - and some of these don't even have back pockets! The heart-wrenching sound you hear is of spoiled poseurs everywhere crying, "Oh. My. Gawd."
A lot of people, of course, blame the pants. But I feel that, as the Bard once (kind of) said, the fault is not in our pants but in our selves.
IT'S A SCANDAL, the way we treat our pants.
I know the way I treat mine is. Not the way I care for all my pants - just one pair. They are a pair of black corduroys. That is, they used to be black. The color has been drained from them. Now they're more a sickly ashen shade. They also aren't corduroy anymore; they no longer have enough threads to be corduroy.
They're forlorn, these pants. Clinically depressed. A formless, faded shadow of their once deep-hued and well-constructed selves.
At night when I go to bed, they hang listlessly on the hook on the back of the master-bathroom door, all but whimpering. "Please," I think I hear them plead. "Cut me into rags - anything to help me be something more than what I've become."
But I can't. I love them. They fit me. They're as comfortable as pajamas.
Old pants, I've decided, are the new old sneakers.
Or, as the Bard also (kind of) said: Comfort, thy name is pants.