Son of a bitch, reader. Son of a bitch. I just deleted today's column, which I had carefully and painstakingly prepared for your immense, thundering pleasure. You know that problem you have today? The one you can't stop thinking about? This column would have made you forget it almost instantly. You might have even laughed hard enough to tinkle in your pantaloons.
You do wear pantaloons, don't you? Oh. Well, you still would have liked the column, just not quite as much.
To tell you the truth, about a quarter of the column would have only been understood by pantaloon wearers. Forty percent tops. Maybe a little over half, or 72%. But the other 28%, or possibly just 12%, of the column would have been hilarious! You definitely still would have gone weener-weener in your knickerbockers.
Since you don't wear pantaloons, you do at least wear knickerbockers, correct? Oh. Well, this column still would have been quite funny. At least 4% of it, or maybe 2%. You might not have gotten your lower-region clothing wet, but you would have at least laughed hard enough to make your jodhpurs jiggle. I'm going to assume, at this point, that since you refuse to wear pantaloons and knickerbockers, you have no choice but to wear jodhpurs. Please tell me I'm not mistaken.
OH, COME ON. No jodhpurs? What about slacks? Chinos? Herby-handled breeches? Clam diggers? Pedal pushers? Lasterloo longies?
Fine, reader! Fine! There's still some funny left for you in that column, your freaking majesty. A hoity-toity underbottoms connoisseur like yourself would have still laughed at a fraction of 1% of the content, but you probably wouldn't have been happy with that, either. Having a column with .378% hilariousness used to be plenty for most folks, but I guess it could have just been a learning experience for you. You like learning, right?
Well, shit.
I suppose it was good that I deleted the column. I guess I'm getting a little too sophisticated these days. You know, me being so damn liberal and all. It's not my fault. If Noam Chomsky switches to pantaloons, I have no choice but to follow suit (pardon the pun). I have to keep up with the latest political man fashions, y'know.
Everyone has their idols. Just like if Oprah Winfrey switched from bubble baths to bathing in pudding, housewives across America would do the same. Just like if Paris Hilton stopped blowing everyone she met, teen girls across the nation would have to close their mouths on weekend nights to keep random men from ejaculating into them. Just like if Corey Feldman stopped drinking and went into rehab, I wouldn't have any more readers.
Personally, I wouldn't be caught dead at rehab. They'd take away my pantaloons. The baggy ankles are too easy to hide bottles of Brennivin schnapps.
Nevertheless, the column is gone. There's no use crying over it like Nancy Kerrigan. We'll just have to use this greasy slab of trite as a column. Though the "thundering pleasure" my last column offered may be gone, every cloud has a silver lining. I now have an excuse to drink the gigantic jug of Sour Apple Pucker I keep in my pantaloons.
