"Why yes I have been waiting nearly two years to figure out a vaguely plausable excuse to put a picture of my own ass on my blog, thanks for asking."
So here I sit at my desk in $300 jeans. THREE HUNDRED DOLLAR JEANS…that’s fucking ridiculous. I, of course, did not pay $300 for them and I never would. I can have these for free—ZIP, ZERO, NO DOLLARS, FREE.99—but I just can't do it...I cannot wear $300 jeans. I am not a $300 jeans guy.
I think if I were sitting across the table from my dad and told him I had $300 jeans on he would smack me. Well, after that look and that slight choking noise and his half-sentence shock—“You gotta be…” he would trail off, then WHACK! And I would be OK with that. He didn’t raise me to wear $300 jeans. It’s bad enough his son thinks he’s more Italian than he really is…that he shaves his legs and rides his bicycle all the time…that he lives in California…$300 jeans—Hells no!
Principle aside, these jeans ain’t all that. They make my ass look flat(er), the faux warn finish looks too faux, and—worst of all—they keep binding my nuts. Did I mention they cost 300 f-ing dollars? For 300 clams they should at the very least make coffee, fetch the paper and trim my nosehairs. And the oh-aren’t-we-super-fucking-edgy-because-we-applique-scary-skulls-on-the-ass-pockets-of-these-overpriced-clubjamas are just…dumb. A pirate wouldn’t be caught dead in these and they love skulls! Shit, I love skulls—and pirates!—but these just seem so contrived!
Nope, these are just not me and when I’m done typing and posting this, I will—carefully, so as not to rupture myself—remove them and return them, respectfully, to the giver of the jeans with the following note:
“Thank you but $300 jeans are just not in my genes.”
