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This is an e-mail I received from an old co-worker when I moved to head office.... it is all about fancy pants.
Hello Jeffrey,
As I glance across the store at you, delicately prancing from H rack to H rack, carrying slacks like only you know how to, I can’t help but wonder why… why there are starving children in Africa, why blue and yellow make green, and why hot dogs come in packages of 12, when hot dog buns only come in packages of 8. Most importantly, why do I crawl into bed each and every night without you in my arms Jeffrey? There are many mysteries to my life Jeffrey, and these mysteries plague my thoughts and cause me many sleepless nights. Another such mystery to me is how a man with a size 50 waist can possibly complain about pleats not hanging properly across his cottage cheese-rolled undercarriage. But, this is life, and more importantly, this is my life. His name is Laird. Laird MacKenzie. Laird waddled into my life this past Friday; he was on a mission, codenamed “operation: slackpant”. Laird wants every colour of the rainbow in flat-front low-rise pants, and he wants them now. He wants them bad. There is a dress pant desire burning deep within his loins. He salivates at the thought of a well-fitting slack, just as he salivates over his three amigos: Ronald McDonald, Colonal Sanders, and of course, Dave Thomas, founder of Wendy’s. So Jeffrey, if not for me, do it for Laird. Get up from your desk, get up from this email, and go find Bill Kingston. Find him Jeffrey, and find him now… it is of upmost importance. You find Bill Kingston, you press yourself up against his manly bosom and get millimeters away from his face until you can smell his sweet, sticky breath. The kind of breath that reminds one of the dew on sunny autumn morns… the kind of breath that makes you long for mama’s shepherds pie. The kind of breath that makes you want to grab your crotch and run from the room smiling and giggling like a Japanese school girl. You’ll know it when you smell that breath Jeffrey. If there is any doubt in your mind whether or not you’ve smelled it, you haven’t smelled it. And when you DO smell that breath, that luxurious, fanciful Bill Kingston breath, I want you to lean in real close and whisper “flat front slacks…low rise…size fifty…Laird.” And if that doesn’t tell Bill Kingston that you mean business, nothing will. So you ask him, and when his knees begin to quiver, and his lips part with fear and he utters the words that I need to hear, such as “…five colours…” or “…store 001…” then you reply to this email just as fast as your little dainty fingers can type, so that I may fulfill the fantasies of the one they call Laird. The artist formerly known as Laird. Thank you Jeffrey, and may you have many scrumptious days filled with delicacies and tasty treats that I should only dream of knowing.
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