COTTON DOCKERS - A DANGER TO MAN

I have never had a happy relationship with pants. They've always attacked me. I've suffered zippers slicing into fragile appendages, holes in pockets that sent bus fare running down my leg only to disappear into a street drain and earthquake fissures in the butt due to rapid bending over and too many donuts. All the pants I owned cost me dearly.

Secretly, I started to observe other men's friendly pants. There were the casual fits, the drainpipe, and the baggy, and all of them seemed to hang perfectly on the personality peg attached to them. The relaxed fit went with the relaxed man. The easy fit with the laid back. But no matter what choice I made, my pants hated me.

I wondered if the malicious zipper bit my family jewels because I was a mope from gloomy Scotland. And whether the hole in my pocket was a message that I'd always be picking up dimes and nickels from the sidewalk. And the bum rips a reminder of man's biggest fear: exposure. Frightened, I abandoned the fraying trouser world.

For a while, I tried denim shorts complimented by sandals with black socks, but kids pointed and laughed at me in the street. Christ, I was Scottish, I could get away with wearing a skirt but urinating felt weird in a kilt although it did have its benefits - there was no danger of Jaws the Zipper looking for his lunch. Desperate, I looked out to sea, and tried Dockers.

Within seconds of slipping into Cotton Dockers, in the changing room at Penneys, I felt my libido run down the inside leg and head for the exits. Panicked, I wrestled with these most dangerous trousers and got them off just in time to save my procreation potential. Now I understood why golfers and Cotton Dockers went together - they both involved the use of small balls. I fled.

Now, I wear large cardboard type industrial flares, and hold it in until I safely get into my jaw-less pajamas. Trousers are the true menaces of the deep.