After taking a week off work for Christmas, I had an odd experience travelling to work today. You see, I couldn’t quite work out why I was getting such odd looks on the tram. A really odd mix of disturbed and amused looks. I shrugged it off, I look odd at the best of times.
Once I’d fired up my PC at work, I powered outside to my favourite coffee haunt. While I was patiently waiting for my brew, this brilliantly hot dude with a chin that could cut steel kept eyeing me off outside the shop. Hoorah, I thought. Nothing like some harmless flirting.
He then surprised me completely by walking over and shaking my hand to introduce himself. Whoa, that’s forward, I thought to myself… although, on the other hand, with a closely cropped mohawk, I do kinda have Default Gay Haircut #3 (or, as some might say, a “bearcut”).
Grinning like a loon, I refused to be the first to vocalise anything, because I’m incredibly prone to blurting out non sequiters in these situations. Then things got even more intense: he leaned over into my ear while grasping my arm. WHOA. Did my local coffee store just turn into the backroom of some smelly gay bar? Someone fetch me a towel!
Then he leaned his muscular bulk over me, and breathed a sentence into my ear which would haunt me for the rest of the day:
“I didn’t want to embarass you, so I’m pretending that I know you. Uh, you have a gigantic rip in the arse of your pants.”
Gravity felt like it was turning inside out, the air rushed out of the room, and I cursed my choice of bright red undies. Suddenly, I became concious to a gale force breeze ploughing through a gigantic hole on my pants. I patted my arse in terror and discovered that this tear encompassed the entire length of my buttcrack.
What followed was something I can only describe as Corporate Strafing, the act of manically travelling into and around an office building by fearfully keeping your back to a wall at all times. After slinking under my desk for a few hours, I eventually fled the building to get a taxi home on my lunch break and change my pants.
It really did not help that as I was hailing down a taxi, a nearby hotel bellboy clearly wanted to let me know about the gigantic rip in my pants in a crowded street environment. Hoping to avoid another embarassing confrontation, I raced into the taxi. Foolishly thinking I’d escaped him, he doggedly chased me down the street barraging the taxi roof with his fists, helpfully screaming “THERE IS A GIGANTIC RIP IN THE ARSE OF YOUR PANTS!” while I cowered in shame.
As always, with retrospect, I could have played today so much better. The perfect response to the hot coffee shop dude could have been “I know they’re ripped open – are you ready to take me?”
Either that, or I could have feigned intimate knowledge of next season’s fashion. All we need to do is find this generation’s Marky Mark and convince Calvin Klein to start printing their logo sideways across the arsecrack of their jocks, and we’ll be set.
You know the worst thing? This is not the first time I’ve split my pants in public (read old entry)…
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Also: it is vitally important, whenever someone helpfully points out that your fly is down, to immediately answer “of COURSE it is!” and storm off.
Adam should really wait until you’ve taken your clothes off next time. :-S