A few hot summer days ago, I was sitting around in my ill-fitting tighty-whities, sipping warm flat soda with the AC turned off and watching The People’s Court (wait, is that still on? Great, I just fucked up the continuity of my true story).
Whatever. Tighty-whities, warm beverage on a hot day. People’s Court.
Meggie, 1,000 months pregnant at this point, “gracefully” made her way into the living room in an obvious panic.
I couldn’t really understand what she was saying because I had the TV turned way up. All I could hear was the judge’s gavel destroying the bench, as he shouted “order!” and “shut the *BLEEP* up!” at the greasy Mexican migrant worker and fat trailer trollette accusing said Mexican of owing her five bucks. I scratched my sweaty, hair-matted belly and wondered if that Mexican dude had ever drilled his bleach-blond accuser.
“David! Are you listening to me?” Meggie shrieked.
“Oh yeah, totally.”
“Well?” She tapped her domestic foot. I saw my yet-to-be-born baby shift, making her belly move, and I thought of Alien.
“……..” I glanced at the TV and saw the Mexican dude making out with the whore plaintiff. “Yeah, he totally test drove that,” I thought to myself. And apparently out loud.
“Test drove what, David?….I don’t care. You were supposed to be at work two hours ago! Go put on some pants and go!”
I casually got up, shook the sweat off my torso like the furry love hound that I am and grabbed my pants off the floor.
Nobody was going to question my punctuality at work because I put on my special pants. My magic pants.
My badass pants!
I put on my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans, motherfucker!
Nobody fucks with Daddy when he’s wearing his motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. And for the most part, all I wear are my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. Logic would therefore dictate that for the most part, nobody ever fucks with me.
These badass jeans are so magnificent and so tapered that I don’t even have to tight roll them. All I have to do is roll them up, and it’s automatically a tightroll. And they have my badass man smell all over them because I only wash them once a month or so. That’s not sweat and parmesan you smell when I walk past you. That’s power and triumph.
And they are so acid-washed. It looks like a bleach monster with severe allergies sneezed super hard all over them.
Because my badass motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans are the symbol of power, strength, masculinity and virility, they’re not sold at your average clothing retailer. They have to be found.
And I know where to find them: Goodwill.
Goodwill is pretty much the only place I shop for clothes. You know that sleeveless shirt with Garfield on it that I always wear? The one where Garfield’s wearing oversized sunglasses and crossing his arms all cool-like? Yeah, that one. I got that at Goodwill. Same with my giant high-tops and that weird clown painting.
Every few months, I go to Goodwill and drop a couple Washington’s on a new pair of motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans. I don’t even wait to go home and put them on. I tell the retard behind the counter to turn his lumpy head around so I can slide into my new gear on the spot.
When I walk out, jeans clenching my ankles and snuggling my berries, I make sure to keep my wedding ring visible. Because I know that the bitches can’t resist a man in acid-washed jeans.
So, if you’re in the market to boost your badassness, I recommend you consider getting motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans.
And in case you are wondering, when I went to work, my red-with-envy boss told me, “Leave this fucking office right now and don’t come back until you are dressed like a professional and not a homeless junkie.”
When I came back in a few hours later was I wearing anything other than my motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans? Hell no! A badass never compromises his style and convictions.
David C. Garcia, tapered, acid-washed jeans wearing motherfucker
You win at internet. Best blog post ever. Also, I am thoroughly creeped out by that clown painting. Well done.
Also, I effed up my url in my last comment. So… this comment has nothing to do with your story. But really, uh… good work.
question: for the sake of the shrinking supply of tapered, acid-washed jeans, do you ever sell a pair of those puppies back to the goodwill?
is it kind of like debeers, where they hoard all the world’s diamonds to drive up its price (and by proxy badassness)? just like you to take, take, take. share the fucking love man.
Loren:
Dude, I wear the acid washed jeans until they rot off of my legs. The scraps are then honorably stored in the same special air-tight jar that houses my hair and toenail collection. Sorry, champ. If you want some motherfucking tapered, acid-washed jeans, you need to search for them. If you have the PASSION like I do, you will find them…
OMG. the tapered acid-wash jeans and large fat high tops were my school’s informal camaro-driving, poison-listening uniform. brings back memories of wine coolers, cheetos and making out.