- I can open the desk at the hostel without pants, no problem.
- Other people (other people who aren’t me) can’t even come downstairs without pants.
- However, I still cannot cook salmon burgers naked and/or pants-free (waffers are still ok).
- I can be in a mariachi band (in my imagination) with no pants, because that’s actually a funnier image than just being in a mariachi band.
- I cannot be sworn in as the President of the United States without wearing pants. It sends the wrong message to the nation.
- I can take a nice bath with absolutely no pants—it is, in fact, recommended.
- Pants are encouraged for all trips to relatives house’s. Gramma has staunch morals.
- I cannot take a driver’s test without pants, but I can help someone get to a driver’s test with no pants.
- I could make mixed drinks with no pants if I were required.
- In fact, I can delegate tasks effectively while managing multiple priorities, solve problems proactively in a dynamic environment, work well against deadlines, all without pants.
- It is still not recommended to go to a job interview without pants.
- Similarly, inspecting apartments without pants can be problematic. Think of the children.
- I do a pretty good “Fuzzbottom McTickleface duke of Catchester” impression, if I am free of any pants I may or may not have worn.
- I wear pants if it’s cold out. It has not been cold out.
- For the record, it is perfectly fine to blog pantsless.
Men, we must shed the tyranny of pants. We must cast off these shackles and chains, these chains that keep our balls sticky and uncomfortable. Pants that fit wrong, pants with belts to hold us in, pants that cling to our undercarriage like a remora we must unpluck in the “privacy” of a stolen moment—these devices are meant to keep our masculinity in check and our sexuality properly “controlled.” They are an invention made specifically to entrap a man’s crotch. Ask yourself: don’t my man-parts have a right to something as fundamental as breathing? We must dispose of these reprehensible implements. Let it swing free, my brothers! Fig leaves be damned!
(or maybe this pair I’m wearing is just the wrong size)
You see that? See what I did? That’s funny there. It’s funny, cause men need to wear pants in order to work or go outside or really do anything; everyone knows that. And that’s fine. It’s called irony. We accept pants. Pants, even if inconvenient, are a necessary evil of walking upright. Most people agree we shouldn’t be greeting each other with our sexy bits. C’est la vie, fellow pantsmen. But now, out of curiosity, replace every instance of “balls, crotch, etc.” with “breasts,” every “pants” with “bra,” and “man” with “woman” …you get the picture. Suddenly it’s the legitimate grievance of a first-wave feminist. Wha-wha? Dudes, how did that happen!?
Life is full of minor discomfitures. Sticky balls, butt-plucking, wrong-way wood, zipperphobia, testy testes, chode erosion, and *ahem* decreased seminal potency are all included. To the same extent, so are bungee boobs/bound boobs, Robobras, butt floss, the pubic lint-trap, et al. My personal advice to any of the fairer-shake sex who wish to argue their lot in life: learn acceptance. Who wears the pants? We both do, yes, ok. And bras can definitely be uncomfortable, especially if you’re one of the three out of four who wears the wrong size. But I bet your ovaries never get crossed if you sit down wrong.
And that is why we get to pee standing up.