Pants, trousers, leggings--whatever you call those tubular casings in which we so obligingly stuff our nether limbs--well, they're a villainously barbaric invention, as anyone who ever had a wedgie (and who hasn't?) can attest.
Why do we continue to tolerate--nay, crave and covet and cherish these wretchedly uncomfortable garments? Are we masochists? Do we enjoy inflicting pain upon ourselves? Or do we relish the sense of bondage, imprisonment, voluntary servitude imposed by the tightness of trousers?
Seriously, I think pants are satanic: waistbands and belts dig mercilessly into our bellies; inseams pull and jerk at our private junk; cuffs or hems catch on our calves or snag on our heels. Nothing good can be said about these diabolical torture devices.
Other societies, both past and present, have authorized males to clothe themselves more sanely, more comfortably: tunics, kilts, dashikis, kimonos, even a well-draped toga allow more intimate wiggle room than the wretched bindings foisted upon us by barbaric Gallic tribes.
It just makes no sense at all to continue to gird our loins with pain. Gentlemen, let us just say "yes" to the DRESS.
No comments:
Post a Comment