Pine Nuts: Saggy pants as a fashion statement
Ever wonder why older men synch their slacks up so high, while younger men droop their drawers down below their ilium?
What caused me to ponder this conundrum was a spelling error that appeared in a proposed South Carolina law that would make it unlawful to appear in public in pants sagging more than three inches below the “crest of the ileum.” Whoops, they meant, “ilium.”
This error brought a smile, as the ileum is part of the small intestine, and wearing your pants three inches below your ileum would not bring any attention, whereas, wearing your trousers three inches below your ilium would amount to “plumber’s crack.”
It has been said that the saggy pants fashion began in prison, where they don’t issue belts, and perhaps became a flag to signal availability, I don’t know.
But let us examine for a moment the diametrically opposed extreme of men over 70 who hike their trousers up to their sternum, then synch their belt so tight as to make sixteen pleats magically appear. Some attribute this fashion statement to global warming, while others suggest that men tend to shrink after the age of 70, causing their 20-year-old trousers to become six sizes too long.
I know for my own part that if I continue to shrink at my current rate I shall soon need a booster seat when I go out to dinner.
But what about the ladies? I’ve noticed that women who wear overalls sometimes get a sideways glance, and the mom-jeans we’re seeing now are not attractive. Women wearing inappropriately short shorts are sometimes barred from boarding airplanes, though I don’t know why, and to my mind, tattooing a woman is akin to spray-painting a statue of Venus de Milo with graffiti.
I had the experience once of attending a party that I took for a “Bo-Sox” or Boston Red Sox party, as my image of heaven is sitting in Fenway Park with a Blatz Beer in one hand and a Fenway Frank in the other. I was pleasantly surprised to find so many Bo-Sox fans in our little village, and all women!
A very tall lady welcomed me and asked if I was there for the Bo-Sox.
“You bet I am!” I beamed. “They’re eight-to-one right now to win the Series, and with nine guys hitting above three hundred, well, you know, it’s like money in the bank!”
She took my hand, and whispered, “You should have your mouth done, honey, so you don’t look so oblivious all the time.”
Then she escorted me to a large chair and pushed me into it, all the while telling me to lean back, close my eyes, and open my mouth. I felt a little bee sting and my lower lip started expanding like the universe. The tall lady handed me a napkin and said as an aside, “You’re drooling, honey.”
I stood up and started to shout to everybody that this was the year we were going to beat the Curse of the Bambino, but my lower lip was dead and I couldn’t seem to talk worth a darn. Well that was the strangest Bo-Sox party I ever went to, and though I don’t intend to go to another one anytime soon, I have been told I’m looking a bit younger since that Bo-Sox party …
Learn more about McAvoy Layne at http://www.ghostoftwain.com.
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