You know...once in a while, I enjoy reading my own writing. Not too often, but I read this post from some time ago and seriously made me wonder where I get this stuff. Made me laugh at myself. Hopefully it will allow a giggle for some of you too! So, without further ado, and with wishes of a safe and enjoyable Memorial Day weekend, here is the re-release of "I Like Wearing White Pants."
Enjoy (I hope)!
Yep. That would be me. The guy who likes to wear white pants.
Watching Fashion Star tonight made me want to wear my white pants every other day. Of course, on alternating days I would like to wear salmon and sea foam green (for good measure, obviously).
Why do I share this love for white pants? Because I can. Yes my friends. I CAN love white pants. Not ALL white pants though. I am not a fan of white denim. I mean, really, can you really make white denim look that good? I guess if they were very full, and you wore them with some really awesome shoes and had abs of steel so you could go shirtless (then you would also need a kickass tan)...you MIGHT be able to pull it off, but I, personally, will not be wearing white denim on my even numbered days.
Then the ultimate question comes up. How do you keep white pants clean throughout the day? This is a very valid question and one that I thought of numerous times during my routine this morning. I apparently wipe the side of my sonic cup in the morning to displace any condensation and then set the cup in between my legs while driving. I caught myself before wiping the condensation on my pants...you never know if that water has pooled with a galactic mass of dust, which as you touch your white pants expands into a light brown stain, formerly known as clear water. So...I caught myself in mid-air and slapped my hand away from the pants. Yes, my right hand did, in fact, know what the left hand was doing. Obviously the homeless fellow with the Sharpie written sign did not know what I was doing, but seriously, doesn't he have other important things to think about?
Actually, that brings me to the question we all want to know. Where do many of the people on the off-ramps find Sharpies to write with? I can never find a Sharpie myself, IN MY HOUSE, let alone if I were homeless. And, they usually do not use those fine-point Sharpies...they have to use the kind that give you a high immediately upon opening the lid. Well, I guess maybe there are people, who instead of giving the people on the corner money, give them Mega Sharpies. I have never observed this happen, but it could be possible. For now, I am still going to save my dollars for those who have used a pen and the bottom of the beer carton they found in the ditch.
I guess, though, I can't read their signs, so in theory they could say, "Hey you. If you can read this sign, you are too damn close...watch the road" or "I don't want your stinking dollars...I just want a Mega Sharpie." In any case, I hope they are okay with the dollar.
The dollar. Yes, we are wandering through a very random thought process tonight. Kind of like word association. The almighty dollar. Let us trace how the dollar I just gave the homeless man got there. First of all, our government decided that they were going to print a zillion dollars and sent them out to the banks to be shared with the masses. The dollar was then passed on to Mabel. She is 92 years old and thinks that she is a very powerful business woman (she actually lives in a Motel 6 on the interstate in Bakersfield, CA) and goes to the bank every day to pick up 40 'crisp' business cards. Did I mention that she thinks her name is George? Thank goodness she didn't think her name was Ben...that would get expensive...but her clients would LOVE her. Anyway, Mabel (aka George) goes to the city park and talks to the pigeons about her brilliant plans to create macramé covers for the Model T seats. As she shares this brilliant idea she passes out her business cards to the listeners. Of course, after one taste of the 'cards' the pigeons politely pass them on to the children who gather round daily and learn about Henry Ford, or wait on dollars...whatever.
So, the dollar ends up in the hands of Rodney Maurice Guiegenhenker III, a 10 year old child prodigy who invests a dollar a day in penny stocks. Rodney (or 'R' as his close friends call him), takes his dollar to his broker, Bob. Yep, 'R' has a broker named Bob. Bob takes the dollar, buys 100 stocks at an even penny a piece. Within 30 minutes 'R' has made $34,298 and heads back to the park where his Nanny will just be waking up from her daily nap.
Meanwhile Bob runs up to the convenience store to buy a bottle of gin. Yep, Bob always bets against 'R' and daily drinks away his animosity toward the 10-year-old. The clerk at the convenience store takes the money from Bob and shakes his head as he watches Bob hobble back to his workplace (did I mention that Bob has one leg six inches shorter than his other? Hence the name Bob. Yep...he had parents with a sick sense of humor).
So, now the dollar changes hands with the clerk at the 7-11, a little old man who had to run in to buy a bag of M & M's before his sugar crashed, a gang member who mugged the little old man, but who was kind enough to leave the M & M's (can't have little old men going into comas in my blog), then we end up in the purse of an as-of-today-former prostitute, Candy. Yep. Candy. Real original, right? Well, Candy had made her final dollar on the streets of Bakersfield and loaded up on the Megabus and headed to Amish Country in Pennsylvania. On her way there she stopped in Kingston, AZ, Amarillo, TX, OKC, OK, and Springfield, MO. In Springfield, she had to stop the bus so that she could visit the restroom, where she realized that she was pregnant. In a state of panic she bought ten pregnancy tests and realized that it was just gas. Before getting back on the bus, she gave the clerk ten ones for two fives. She really likes to have 'bigger' bills, of course. The Amish like that, she has heard.
The clerk at the station is immediately staring at the end of a pistol. The customer behind Candy was getting ready to hold the station up. The clerk hands over the contents of the cash register: 11 ones and three stamps. (Way to hold up the wrong gas station, weirdo) As the attendant watches the robber drive off in their Hummer, he calls the cops. Not 5 miles away the cops pull over the Hummer and arrest the man...but not before he tosses all 11 of the dollar bills in to the wind. "There goes all your proof!" he exclaims, right before the police throw him onto the ground. Really, this one was not the brightest crayon in the box.
The dollars fly away down Chestnut and over Kansas Expressway, where an unsuspecting bicyclist is on their way to work (it is Walk, Bike, or Bus to work week after all). The dollar hits him smack dab in the face. He grabs the dollar and immediately heads to Sonic. It is Happy Hour! Down to Commercial Street he goes where he orders a Cream Slush treat, only to find out that a Cream Slush treat is not actually a slush when it comes to Happy Hour (should have picked the Diet Coke). Grudgingly he gives his dollar, plus two more, to the very happy car hop. She runs inside and takes the next order. It is a Route 44 Diet Coke with easy ice and lime. As the driver pulls up and hands her a five, she reaches in her pocket and hands me the dollar bill.
As I drive off, I see a fellow on the corner with a sign made out of what appears to be white denim with pen writings on it. I respect a homeless person who uses a pen (and does not think white denim is for wearing), so I give him the dollar as I drive past. He yells something to me, I assume a "Thank you kind sir." I drive off.
The man on the corner was actually not saying "Thank You." The real words he yelled were, "Hey! I know the lady who hands out these business cards!"
White denim, Sharpies, and a dollar bill. The morale of the story: If you are going to feed the pigeons your business cards...next time please think that your name is Ben! :)
Peace.
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