Wednesday, 20 September 2017

There's a Hole in My Pants

It has now been sixteen months since the ex decided to make her move to La-la land permanent, went skipping off to dedicate herself to the pursuit of whimsy and abdicated all responsibility, financial and otherwise. Times have been tough, but at long last I’m reaching the point where most of the debt I had dumped on me is paid off.

When poverty sets in, the first thing to suffer is the pants. With no further need to inspire hot lust in a female companion, and no spare cash to make such an outlandish luxury purchase as replacement undies, the existing stockpile falls into neglect and eventually withers and dies. The contents of my bottom drawer have been in terminal decline this past year, and as we approach the winter I find myself down to my final pair of functioning underpants.

Imagine my horror, then, as this morning whilst getting dressed I saw they have a hole in them.

Pant deterioration normally follows a predictable path; first the elastic goes, then the hems fray and eventually gaps begin to appear in the gusset. But the hole I noticed this morning was something entirely different. This aperture is located slap, bang in the centre of the lower, rear coverage. A suspicious mind may draw the conclusion it was deliberately put there to allow easy access to the back passage.

I wish it to be known, just in case I should get run over by a bus and wake up in hospital, that the hole in my pants is definitely not any kind of kinky sexual device. I have absolutely no idea how it got there. Perhaps a curious moth decided to take a nibble, or a stray bullet passed through the material while they were hung out on the line.

Whatever the cause, these punctured pants will soon find themselves consigned to history, as I turn an important corner in my life. Next month I will have money to spend, and I thoroughly intend to invest in a job lot of cheap, foreign pants, which should last me the coming decade at the very least.

I have been down, but I am not out. Onwards and upwards. New pants beckon, and maybe even one day a new lady to share them with.

SJ Smith is back, motherfuckers.

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