My pants

I was out shopping for clothes with the little lady this lovely Labor Day weekend, and in combing through the racks and racks and stacks and stacks of gay-ass premium jeans that the Salad loves to flirt with buying, I found a partcularly gay-ass pair of denim with the appropriate stressing/whiskering that gets a man's masculinity insulted in his place of business (i.e. my manhood @ my job).

In looking further before I returned one such pair of pants to the rack, I noticed the care instruction label:

We think it's best to wash these with a little shampoo while wearing them in the shower or bathtub. You'll notice the indigo will bleed so don't spend all day in there. While they are wet, bend your knees to stretch them out, but don't strain yourself. When done, simply hang to dry in the sun.

That's verbatim. Fucking verbatim. Washing these jeans is as complex and obscure as pledging to become a Freemason. Why would anyone want to own something that you have to wear standing up in the shower to wash? That's a little too Ilan Mitchell-Smith for me.

I don't have that kind of time in my life (or that degree of attention to detail, if you believe my annual employee review) to start a relationship like this with my pants.