What do we have here? Another cocksure contender who thinks he can get a leg up on the master? Well, come and give it your best shot, old boy, but be warned: History is strewn thick with the remains of size-36 pants who thought they could contain ol’ Dennis Puttkamer.
Yes, gaze upon my massive, naked waist, and know that your time has finally come!
No size-36 garment can last even a week against the powerful expanse of this body. I’ve made short work of khakis, dashed the ambitions of many a dress slack, and watched cargo pants crumble when daring to tame me. Not even dungaree or corduroy can confine Dennis Puttkamer, smiter of pants!
Do you think I’m bluffing? Have you forgotten the fates of your ancient brethren, sizes 30 through 35? Each tested its seams against my unstoppable torso, each met its end in tatters, lying cold and lifeless round my ankles. If you don’t believe me, just ask them yourself when you join them in the same bulging ragbag you’ll soon call home.
Come, come size-36 pants, and prepare to meet your doom!
In my younger days, it’s true, there was one pair of pants that proved a worthy adversary: a button-fly trouser I still recall with palpable humility. Many times I had conquered the fragile mechanism of the zipper, but I worried this more elegant fastening device could turn out to be the Moriarty to my Holmes. When we finally met, during a 501 clearance sale at Dillard’s, it took only a tenuous step into that first leg to realize how simple a matter it would be to outmaneuver these pants.
Moments later, I lay on my back in the dressing room, forcing the button fly across my burgeoning waistline. It was truly a sight to behold before the beautiful moment of explosion.
Have you ever seen bread dough pushed through a colander?
If a storied trouser from Levi Strauss & Co. proved no match for Dennis Putthamer, what chance have you, size-36 pants? Look at these thighs! Look at them! Even the comfiest PJs and stretchiest sweats tremble at the mere thought of wrapping round these mighty oaks.
Silks submit, elastics snap, and is it any wonder? I need but a single loose stitch to plot my escape. It might take hours, days even, but inevitably that one unraveling thread becomes two, those two four, and before you know it, my distended belly emerges victorious.
I am a force of nature, a raging riptide of flesh!
Yet I see you’re still keen to pit your waist and inseam against this sweaty hulk of a man.
Perhaps you think you can defeat me by using that belt? Oh, my dear 36, don’t make me laugh. Laughter will only cause my paunch to jiggle to and fro, hastening your demise.
You see, a belt—even one with an improvised notch crudely carved out with a steak knife—is but a tin-foil patch on an erupting volcano.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m enjoying our little game. I may even suck in my gut a bit, just enough to toy with you and lead you to believe you’ve actually achieved the impossible, something no other pant before you has dared dream of. And then, right when you’re lulled into a false sense of security and begin to feel the hint of victory, I head to the buffet.
You’ll be rent beyond recognition long before the dessert bar, a confetti of shredded fabric ruing the day it dared to clothe Dennis Putthamer.
So let’s just get this over with.
And don’t look so smug, size-38 pants. I’ve got your number next time.
