Though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run.
Blue, resist the urge to use facebook. You can do it. Good luck.
Cats and dogs can be friends. So can cowboys and indians. So can we.
Why try to be the best when there's no hierarchy in heaven?

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Attack of the Hole-y Jeans!

You would think that someone who hates skinny jeans for men would at least be willing to try on a pair of rebooted eighties jeans with holes in them because, yeah, they're back and you, sir, are from the eighties. Well, think again for the only holes this cowboy will ever learn to appreciate are the ones that nature provided us with.

Delete... delete. I didn't just say that. And if I did, you, for one, should've known I was only innocently referring to the kind of holes that embellish jeans as the result of honest hard work — you know, like digging in the garden or doing some serious DIY to keep the moaning neighbors out of your nocturnal life — so get your mind outta the gutter. It's Sunday for moaning out loud.

Jeans... Don't you just love them? I myself am a bootcut kinda guy, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I don't relish the thought of slowly bending over in a pair of unmanly skinny jeans in an attempt to, you know, gently shove — nay, tuck — those skinny jeans into my snake skin cowboy boots — well, not the entire 100 percent of them like I were trying to hide the whole shebang and in the process reveal my brand new Speedos, though common sense dictates I really should (hide those skinny jeans, not reveal my Speedos). No, I'm talking the lower parts located between the knees and the hems that protect you from seeing things that might upset you, like my hairy calves and what not. Yes, I like you that much. You are my hero.

So imagine my surprise when I found both my mental and my non-virtual space invaded by herds of seemingly mindless zombies wearing skinny jeans that completely failed to protect my eyes from seeing things that might upset me, like women's hairy legs and partial butts all sticking out. Yikes! Keep that hair away from me! What do you mean, "It's fashionable"?! Oh my God! Just look at them.... Mindless zombies roaming the streets like those freaks in Invasion of the Body Snatchers — no, not the reboot featuring Nicole Kidman, though I admit I'd like to see her wearing those hole-infested skinny jeans. Something tells me her legs aren't hairy and gross and brain-melting.  Anyway, there I was, minding my own business, just taking a friendly walk in an effort to enjoy a bit of friendly sunshine without anyone imposing their not-so-friendly hairy legs on me, but there they were, scarring my innocence: skinny jeans with holes in them the size of, well, let's say they clearly defied the term 'skinny', and those... hairs... sticking out. Hairs and holes! Holes and hairs! They were everywhere.

So naturally I ran. Run, Blue, run! I tried to hide behind the nearest tree I could find. Darn, the first one was so small it would've done a poor job trying to conceal my sizable if muscular buttocks. Run! Ah.... There is another tree. I ran toward that one and, completely out of breath, decided what to do next. Would I make it to my homemade anti-alien slash zombie-beware-for-I've-got- nukes-while-I-go-hide-inside-my-shelter shelter? (At the time, 'homemade' seemed like a very good name for it considering the damn thing was very much near my home and stuff. You know.) As I was trying my darnest not to lose it and come up with a plan that (1) made perfect sense, (2) was fairly doable and (3) would make MacGyver eat his heart out (of course, to no avail) all the while hiding behind this very fat tree, someone standing behind me tapped on my shoulder.


I nearly died. My heart must've skipped ten, twenty beats. There was this zombie-like creature in hole-infested skinny jeans (boasting complementary hairs) staring me in the face. Those eyes! Those eyes! Those piercing, piercing eyes that seemed to accuse me of refusing to assimilate into the collective. Wear skinny jeans, those hideous eyes said. Wear ssssssssskinny jeans with holes. Big, big holes. Holes so big we can finally enjoy the sight that is your hairy calves, you handsome, handsome non-zombie-yet Blue. Well, that's what I thought those eyes were saying, and in hindsight, my interpretation of said piercing eyes coupled with those hideous hairy-leg revealing holes makes perfect sense — holes that reminded me of a thousand eyes, a crazy person's eyes, and they all seemed to be hissing the same damn thing: Wear sssssssskinny jeans with big hoooooooooles in them. The bigger, the better. Wear them. Resistance is futile.

And, you know, the funny thing is.... when this hairy, yet strangely attractive, yummy zombie girl finally opened her zombie mouth — no doubt to bite my face off or put big holes in them — the sound that she made, the sound that came out of her lopsided zombie mouth, was the sound a sheep makes when you shove a selfie stick or monopod up its rear. And that's when I woke up, my face still fully functioning if drenched in an odd mixture of sweat, fear and salty tears. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. And yet, my friends... the threat of the Hole-infested Skinny Jeans is palpable and, yes, very real. Be warned... There might be one hole too many.

Find it and you'll go blind.

* * *

Some things'll never change...