I should have listened to Dad. His advice regarding tight pants was to avoid them at all costs. “Those pants are like a cheap hotel,” he would proclaim of passersby whose trousers lacked proper ventilation. “No ballroom.” Then he’d thrust his hips forward and let the wind whip through the folds of his bathrobe, proudly demonstrating his sartorial pragmatism. Instead I listened to my metrosexual friend, Tré.
Tré said things were different now. He swore that chicks dig dudes who creak like the Tin-Man when they walk. He told me that -- in skinny jeans -- I’d have to scramble like a damn ROFLsberger to avoid all the rogue blowjobs that would soon be bombarding me from every corner of the bar. With his faux hawk and phony reading glasses, Tré had been bedding tatted-up alt girls by the wheelbarrow of late. I wanted in.
So I decided to give it a test drive. Bought a pair of nuthugging 501s that barely reached my high-tops ahead of an especially promising date. After an hour-long struggle involving a can of Crisco, a broken belt and two disgruntled roommates, I was dressed. Now I just had to learn to walk without declaring myself a recent rape-victim.
Despite the constant junk-rearrangement and inability to effectively keep track of the whereabouts of my left testicle, the date went smoothly. Right up until the moment my date finally got a proper glance at my pockets, which were displaying – in startling definition, I might add – my smartphone, car keys and, yes, the telltale outline of a condom wrapper. “You think I’m going to ...” she began. A look of horror described itself about her face. Those words would prove the last she ever communicated to me.
Suffice to say, I’ve returned to the land of the relaxed-fit pant, tail – and, more importantly, cock – swinging leisurely between my legs. These days, I shop for pants that compare favorably with a Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons; that is to say, providing adequate ballroom and a safe, discreet place to stow one’s valuables.
Tré, however, remains unconvinced. I fear one of his rope-factories will reascend within weeks. I can offer only the following 10 observations in an effort to save his dignity, and doubtless the dignity of a hundred more aspirant hipsters among you:
1. Excessive Perspiration
The day I went straight-leg is the same day I began to mistake every seat I vacated for a water fountain. If you think skinny pants are uncomfortable in December, wait until July, when the delightful phenomenon they call “swampass” becomes a fixture in your daily goings-on.
2. Can’t Fart Properly
The pressure exerted by a pair of skinny jeans on one’s anal cavity is akin to the effect of an industrial dam to an onflowing river: at best, things might leak through in frail protest, but they certainly won’t do so with the vivacity which nature intended. An additional note: avoid “prairie-dogging” or “turtleheading” in skinny pants at all costs. The geometry of such a maneuver is bound to humiliate you.
3. Difficulty of Removal
You know what’ll make your soldier go soft faster than a tran-granny porno? That awkward moment when you have to pause foreplay for five minutes to Cirque-du-Soleil yourself out of your new pants.
4. No Storage Space
1999 was a calendar year in men’s fashion, at least for those of us who value stow-space. When you weren’t wearing cargo pants, you were swagging hard in a pair of JNCOs with a back-pocket that could house a Trapper Keeper. My drug dealer was getting shit done back then. I’d ask for a nickel-bag and he’d whip out a suitcase. Now dude’s wearing skinny jeans; he only sells seeds.
5. Constant Rearrangement of Parts
You remember that time you lost that wager and had to shave off all your pubes? Then you’ll also remember living with your hand down your pants for a few weeks afterward. Welcome to Life in Skinny Jeans, where you have to untie the knots in your cock every time you undress.
6. “Ouch, I just sat on my nutsack.”
Yup, that’s definitely something I started saying more often once I opted to go skinny.
As mentioned, narrow-legged pants will broadcast the entire contents of your pockets to the rest of the world. In addition to condom high-jinks like the one recounted above, this information should prove valuable to petty thieves, lunchroom bullies and the TSA.
8. Lost Buttons and Split Seams
You know you’re not a fat kid. But your skinny jeans don’t, and they won’t hesitate to treat you like one.
9. You’re Not a Rockstar
You know who skinny jeans worked for? Robert Plant. Dude used to shamelessly dress up as a woman, circa 1970 no less. You know why? Cause he was packing a goddamn baby’s arm in his Fruit o’ the Looms. You probably aren’t -- so let her imagination work in your favor.
10. The Rape Waddle
Forget walking -- I can barely stand up in skinny jeans. And if and when I do manage to contort myself into an upright position, the cumbersome gait that follows is one you’d only expect to find at the state penitentiary or a lemon party that ran out of muscle relaxants.