My Pants Are Getting Smaller
First, I don't think it is any of you, here at the blog, who have been messing around with my pants. So, you're fine. Just don't touch my pants when they are near your house.
My number one pants (the pair I love and cherish, and wear over to the gas station across the street from my apartment) were hanging in my closet yesterday when I went for them, and I noticed that they were a little tight. I know I've been trying to save money by eating cheap eats at malt shops, gas stations, burger palaces, machines where you pull on a knob to get choco cookies and other convenient goodies. And perhaps I have put on a pound here and there, maybe more ass pounds than, say, hand or feet pounds, but I don't think my pants got that tight just from a little overeating on my part.
I had to use the ladies pay toilet downtown yesterday, because the men's was slippery, and Chester, the clean up dude, hadn't come in yet. Now, as most of you know, inside the ladies (this is the heterosexual ladies toilet, by the way) stall is a really good snack machine, with ice cream bars, extra crispy fried chicken, Yoo Hoo's, and lots of other fine chops to whet anyone's appetite while they're waiting to shit inside a heterosexual ladies toilet. Oh, yeah. The Lesbian toilet was also free, but I know what goes on inside there, and I was afraid. Gee, isn't that strange? I own the damn thing, and I'm afraid to use one of my own stalls. Weird world. The gay toilet was in use, as always, and I don't bother my gay brothers while they are doing what they do best. But I don't usually eat supper in my toilets, downtown. For a good, clean meal, try my family stalls at the beach.
Back to my pants. They are just too tight. Especially around the crotch, and tushy-meat. And, as you all know, those are my two most important areas, in or out of my pants. I did have a beer and some pizza while on the pot (you have to order out for pizza though. Maybe we should get an oven, huh?) and my pants were around my feet while I grunted just as hard as my tiny little voice could grunt. I grunted, and then grunted harder, and harder, and harder. Then a knock on the door came, and the pizza boy was here. Well, of course I was embarrassed, but what could I do? I unlocked the door and let him in. Naturally, I covered my personal goodies with a copy of the Ladies Home Companion.
As I sat there, half naked in my "Mrs. Toilet" (that's what we call the can for married ladies and where I was having a nice time just crapping away, without a care in the world) I contemplated my life. And hoped for better days. And used the phone to order some new pants.
I gave the pizza boy a slice of pizza and a drink of water, because I didn't have any change for a tip. What could I do? When a grown man doesn't have enough change for a decent tip for the delivery boy while sitting on the toilet, he does the best he can.
The end.
Joey
My number one pants (the pair I love and cherish, and wear over to the gas station across the street from my apartment) were hanging in my closet yesterday when I went for them, and I noticed that they were a little tight. I know I've been trying to save money by eating cheap eats at malt shops, gas stations, burger palaces, machines where you pull on a knob to get choco cookies and other convenient goodies. And perhaps I have put on a pound here and there, maybe more ass pounds than, say, hand or feet pounds, but I don't think my pants got that tight just from a little overeating on my part.
I had to use the ladies pay toilet downtown yesterday, because the men's was slippery, and Chester, the clean up dude, hadn't come in yet. Now, as most of you know, inside the ladies (this is the heterosexual ladies toilet, by the way) stall is a really good snack machine, with ice cream bars, extra crispy fried chicken, Yoo Hoo's, and lots of other fine chops to whet anyone's appetite while they're waiting to shit inside a heterosexual ladies toilet. Oh, yeah. The Lesbian toilet was also free, but I know what goes on inside there, and I was afraid. Gee, isn't that strange? I own the damn thing, and I'm afraid to use one of my own stalls. Weird world. The gay toilet was in use, as always, and I don't bother my gay brothers while they are doing what they do best. But I don't usually eat supper in my toilets, downtown. For a good, clean meal, try my family stalls at the beach.
Back to my pants. They are just too tight. Especially around the crotch, and tushy-meat. And, as you all know, those are my two most important areas, in or out of my pants. I did have a beer and some pizza while on the pot (you have to order out for pizza though. Maybe we should get an oven, huh?) and my pants were around my feet while I grunted just as hard as my tiny little voice could grunt. I grunted, and then grunted harder, and harder, and harder. Then a knock on the door came, and the pizza boy was here. Well, of course I was embarrassed, but what could I do? I unlocked the door and let him in. Naturally, I covered my personal goodies with a copy of the Ladies Home Companion.
As I sat there, half naked in my "Mrs. Toilet" (that's what we call the can for married ladies and where I was having a nice time just crapping away, without a care in the world) I contemplated my life. And hoped for better days. And used the phone to order some new pants.
I gave the pizza boy a slice of pizza and a drink of water, because I didn't have any change for a tip. What could I do? When a grown man doesn't have enough change for a decent tip for the delivery boy while sitting on the toilet, he does the best he can.
The end.
Joey
posted by Mr. Liberty at 1:07 PM
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