holey crotch, Batman!

I am blessed with magnificent thunder thighs. When I walk, they rub each other through my pants like desperate lesbians in a prison porno. The result, as you might imagine, is not so different from Andy Dufresne's tunnel in "The Shawshank Redemption." Remember how Dufresne spent years and years digging that tunnel, inch by inch, until he had punched through the thick wall and dragged himself out of Shawshank? Geology is the study of pressure and time, Morgan Freeman's Red informs us. Well, after enough pressure and time, after enough passionate thigh-rubbing, the fabric of my pants begins to wear away, and tiny holes appear. It's taken my newest pair of jeans about ten months-- one lunar year-- for this to happen, but the dreaded crotch holes have finally arrived. If I leave those holes alone, they'll grow.

Like cancer.

Cancer generated by lesbian thighs.

The image is a bit muddled, but I think you understand what I'm trying to say.

On the main drag of the Smoo neighborhood, downhill from where I live, there's a cackling fat woman who runs a little second-floor shop in which she does clothing alterations and repairs. She repaired a different pair of pants for me without charge when I helped her decode an English-language letter from America that pertained to her son, who is attending high school in the States. The report basically had nothing but praise for her boy, so Madame Cackle happily patched up my pants for free and sent me on my way. I'll probably have to visit her again soon to repair these jeans before the holes become too big. While I'm at it, I've got another pair of pants needing even more extensive crotch repair; I might give those to her as well. While I've done such repairs on my own before, I know there's no substitute for the surgical precision of a sewing machine, and I think I can trust Madame Cackle to treat my crotch with care.

So that's on the agenda for tomorrow.


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