Fukkin up the dough

My pants deny my existence. I struggle with them daily, yet they insist that they are the master. Who is to settle this dispute?

Lying and wheezing in my bed of potato and vinegar, I call for the princes of the boudoir, but they heed me not. I fret, and in fretting, I sprain a whim. Damn. I must go, and leave my pants behind. I spit on them as I leave, but they are not ashamed.

I stroll down the avenue, aware that in my pantslessness I am the focus of attention. I am secretly elated, but at the same time, I am worried. I do not have a spaniel, either, yet I do not experience the joy of being without one. I collapse in the street, crying bitter tears at the emotions I can only deduce, for I am too numb to experience them. I am wracked by despair as I realize I have been feeling the rapture of kazoolessness my entire life, and yet it has not moved me.

As I lie sprawled in the street, passersby stop to taunt me and throw me gnarled twigs.

I catch and eat them, for I deserve no better.

As I crunch on my gritty repast, I feel a prod in a part of my body that only one creature dares to touch. Could it be? it is! My pants! They have come to rescue me!

No, it is only a squirrel.

When, at last, I return home, I find that my pants have locked me out and have taken my wives for their own, and are redecorating the place. I have only myself to blame.