The Brotherhood Of The Splitting Pants

Chances are, at least once in a man's life he will suffer from the most embarrassing of male wardrobe malfunctions (with the possible exception of a complete public de-pants-ing), the rip in the pants. Even if it was in childhood, all of us have been there at least once. Nothing, not even an all day fly-open fail, can quite compare with the feeling of complete powerlessness and confusion of a sudden separation of your trousers in a place and a manner in which they were not intended to open.

Not long ago, this very event happened to your humble correspondent. I was all dressed up for an appointment, and I was on time and well prepared. As I left my vehicle in the parking lot, I decided to check my appointment printout so that I could point myself to the correct room. As fate would have it, another important piece of paper fell out of my briefcase/manpurse, and as I stooped to quickly grab it the unthinkable happened.

As I bent toward the earth, I heard the horrible ripping sound from behind me that could only mean one thing...I had ripped my friggin pants. Apparently, in my haste to retrieve the wayward document, my cat-like reflexes overwhelmed the tensile strength of my normally well-fitting trousers, resulting in a rutpure. As I shot bolt upright, all hope of the rip being a small one was soon extinguished by the unwelcome zephyr that greeted my hindquarters. Oh no, dear friends...this was no mere tear...this was total, catastrophic pantaloon breach. To put it in nautical terms, we're talking from stem to stern, below the waterline. In public no less, and far enough from anything to hide behind that a dash for cover would have been unseemly. Thinking quickly, I shifted my shoulder-hung manpurse behind me so as to hide the new crack that had formed on my tuckus from public view while I calculated my next move.

Fortunately for me, as I scanned my surroundings with darting eyes, it appeared that no one had noticed my personal little Hades that was unfolding in the middle of the parking lot. I rapidly assessed my dwindling options in this crisis as my rear-end hung in the proverbial breeze...the appointment would have to wait, that much was plain. I briefly (no pun intended) considered making for the nearest bathroom to assess the trouser damage in a mirror, but I did not want to risk sauntering past more prying eyes who might see past my makeshift manpurse-shield and spot my skivvies peeking out at them.

So I decided that a retreat to my vehicle was the best option left to me, as it was close-by and private; and best of all it provided me with a means of escape. Not wanting to cancel the rest of my schedule, I made for the nearest store for a quick replacement for my shattered garment.

I tied my coat around my waist to hide the breach in my breeches and tried to enter the store as if the butt of my pants wasn't torn asunder. I quickly found a suitable pair of replacement pants and after "trying them on", I sheepishly asked the attendant if I could wear them out of the store while I went to pay for them. I was allowed to do so without any awkward questions until I reached the checkout, where the friendly clerk conversationally asked me why I would want my new pants "to go", as it were. Slyly, I told him that the new ones fit much better.

Which was entirely true. If he didn't believe me, I had the proof lying hidden in the bottom of the shopping cart.

Nolan (what's that sound?) buck