Why I Don’t Wear Pants
On Saturday night I met a new person who was amazed that I don’t wear pants. “But what do you wear around the house?” she cried.
Perhaps this poem from the fine people at chickenhead.com will explain:
by Lloyd Kriegel
Striving for coordination,
I seek out slacks to match my tops.
Yet out of reach seems true salvation.
My retail outings end as flops.
I try on slacks and say "Well, Maybe."
In dressing rooms I picked up scabies.
Come end of year, I'll still be pantless,
Empty, broken, fickle, madness!
And in answer to the earlier question, I alternate between the French maid costume and the Princess Leia’s outfit when captured by Jabba.
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