Last week I split my pants at work. It was half lucky and half unlucky I guess. I was lucky it wasn’t the arse of my pants, I was unlucky it was the groin. I was lucky it was nearly the end of the day but I was unlucky I had agreed to go to a friends going away straight after work. I was lucky if I kept my legs closed no one would know but unlucky that I drank so much I would keep forgetting.

I was however lucky I wore the good underwear on that day so that people would know I was a man of style. When your mother always made you wear good undies you never thought it would be because dozens of people in a pub would be staring at them through a gaping whole in your pants. Well, not without dollar bills being slipped into them at the same time anyways.

It isn’t the first pants split to cause embarrassment. The actual first one was when I was 8, just about to run in the 100 metres at our school athletics day. Stretching before hand I heard that dreaded tearing noise. Hoping briefly it might be a tearing muscle or flesh tearing away from my bone but unfortunately my worst fears wear realised when reaching behind me I could feel the soft feel of my A-Team underwear where my shorts should have been.

So I ran the whole hundred metres with ‘Mr T’ acting as ‘B.A. Baracus’ and sneering at people from the comfort of my ass, peeking out of the torn flaps of my shorts. That is a life defining moment for an eight year old and I am sure it is part of why I am so unstable now.

Then there was my first ever job interview at a place called “the sidewalk café”. On the way to the interview I tore a hole on just one cheek of the arse of my pants. They caught on a nail sticking out of a power pole. That could have happened to anyone but it didn’t, it happened to me. I managed to hide it although looked probably very suspicious in my efforts to keep my arse away from him. I later quite that job after being caught on a sick day, drunk out of my mind at the club.

So as you can see, the lack of quality of clothing today has caused me much personal distress. To the point where I don’t think a lawsuit is out of the question. To this very day people think I am full of myself when they see me groping at my own arse but they don’t realise I am just checking for holes (err.... that doesn’t sound good as a sentence but you know what I mean). Today I sit here feeling slightly more secure in a brand new pair of pants, I am however never quite sure when the curse may strike again.

Keep Smiling

Jason

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