The Traitor Pants Died

Typewriterguy

Again, this program is brought to you by the letters “S”, “H”, “I”, and “T”.  Today is a day when we need to salute our shorts in the name of pants-past. I don’t know if you recall, but some time ago I had a favorite pair of pants that, for a brief second, betrayed me in a most egregious way. Well, my motto is to live let live and we soon became friends again; understanding that going commando would never again be an option. I wore them anywhere and everywhere and for an article that was over 6 years old, they held. The funny thing there was never a condition the pants were not suited for. I could wear them on a hike in 90 degree desert climates or trudging through five feet of snow up Mt. Will and be protected from any element. But I killed them.

Usually I have a washer and dryer. A washer to wash and a dryer to dry. But I also am one of those who irons the clothes with the dryer. Since I have moved I have not had the opportunity to get the appliances setup yet so I do it old school and break out the iron and board. That’s where we went wrong.

The traitor pants are made of magic material woven from the finest fairy goo and unicorn mane and most definitely not cotton. I, out of habit, had the iron set to linens. Right when I proceeded to iron them there was an acrid smell and I stated allowed, “Fuck! Smells like monkey burp!”. Then there was smoke.

I killed them. I killed them dead. The hole was instantaneous and not in a place that could be covered or patched. Ironically it was in the same place where I was betrayed by them to begin with. It’s a strange universe we live in folks. Strange indeed.

tombstone

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