Day 108
You may remember a while ago I had a slight issue after the current Mrs. Snowman requested I assist with some laundry.
Although she hasn’t repeated the mistake by asking me to perform the exercise again, today’s entry does concern a slight faux pas I made concerning another article of clothing.
By way of explanation you should first understand the general idea of my wardrobe.
Unlike the wife, I don’t see the point in purchasing several metric tons of clothes each year and opt instead for items I will actually wear. However, as I detest shopping with the same degree of enthusiasm with which I dislike cats and small children, it’s not something I tend to do on a regular basis. As such, I expect any clothes I possess to last several years with the more expensive stuff going with me to the grave.
I replace them only when they fall to pieces and even then under extreme protest.
Consequently my wardrobe is full of stuff that most people wouldn’t admit to owning unless they were auditioning for a lead role in a remake of The Partridge Family.
Mrs. Snowman does her best to sneak a few items into the bin every couple of weeks but I usually manage to rescue them back again before they’re recycled into dusters or car cleaning cloths.
Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with walking down the High Street with flared trousers and a “Free Nelson Mandela” t-shirt.
Also, Mrs. Snowman’s premise of not wanting to be associated with me in public whilst wearing such clothing doesn't seem to take into account that I’m also over six feet tall with messy hair, a bright blue beard and usually wearing a shirt containing several colours so bright that they can't even be found in a Dulux paint catalogue.
However, today’s problem concerned my jeans.
I own four pairs of them, each with more denim patches sewn around the buttock areas than original material that was present at the time of purchase. Every now and again I sew on another one when a new hole appears thereby ensuring they remain perfectly serviceable for virtually every occasion.
Most of the time this presents no problem whatsoever but every once in a while a particularly thin area gives way and a new rip appears.
Today while I was happily sat on the sofa watching the television this happened.
I didn’t realise anything had occurred until mother-in-law gave a high-pitched screech and pointed towards my crotch.
“Eughhh!! For God’s sake cover that up”
“What?”
“That…thing!”
Another piece of material had given up its struggle for decency and my balls, in all their hairy glory were merrily swaying back and forth for the entire World to see.
I tucked them back in and wandered upstairs to put on a pair of tracksuit trousers.
This is not the first time I’ve inadvertently exposed myself to a member of the household but it is the first time an offending organ has been in such close proximity to the mother-in-law.
I’ve been banned from repairing them and told to get a new pair on the weekend.
Even I have to concede that this time I don’t really have a choice.
My erstwhile sponsor also made a choice of continuing to throw money into my account and thereby ensured that after yesterday’s mishap I’m still able to continue on my quest for poker immortality.
As usual I went completely mad and quickly blew $12.20 of my newly acquired wealth on three tournaments where I finished close to the money in each one but not close enough to recoup the entrance fees.
Figuring that I had to retreat and reassess my strategy, I decided against any further games for the day and retired to the bedroom with a needle and cotton and tried to put another patch on the lump of material that used to be an article of clothing.
When I ventured back to the living room, mother-in-law was watching something dreadful on the TV and still brooding about the earlier performance of my testicles. There were no raised voices but I did receive a prolonged lecture on decency and self-respect.
She also sided with her daughter and insisted I go on a shopping trip to avoid the same thing happening again. Her finishing argument was the thing that clinched it for me.
“How would you like it if I flashed my bits at you every time I sat down?”
I thought about it for a couple of moments, managed to keep my dinner down and had no option but to agree with her.
My only plea is that to prevent such an unbelievably repugnant image happening in reality is that she takes to wearing at least three sets of underwear and a pair of surgical stockings under her clothing.
Or a very big piece of Hessian sacking.
Starting bank: $0.00
Current bank: $68.94
Although she hasn’t repeated the mistake by asking me to perform the exercise again, today’s entry does concern a slight faux pas I made concerning another article of clothing.
By way of explanation you should first understand the general idea of my wardrobe.
Unlike the wife, I don’t see the point in purchasing several metric tons of clothes each year and opt instead for items I will actually wear. However, as I detest shopping with the same degree of enthusiasm with which I dislike cats and small children, it’s not something I tend to do on a regular basis. As such, I expect any clothes I possess to last several years with the more expensive stuff going with me to the grave.
I replace them only when they fall to pieces and even then under extreme protest.
Consequently my wardrobe is full of stuff that most people wouldn’t admit to owning unless they were auditioning for a lead role in a remake of The Partridge Family.
Mrs. Snowman does her best to sneak a few items into the bin every couple of weeks but I usually manage to rescue them back again before they’re recycled into dusters or car cleaning cloths.
Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with walking down the High Street with flared trousers and a “Free Nelson Mandela” t-shirt.
Also, Mrs. Snowman’s premise of not wanting to be associated with me in public whilst wearing such clothing doesn't seem to take into account that I’m also over six feet tall with messy hair, a bright blue beard and usually wearing a shirt containing several colours so bright that they can't even be found in a Dulux paint catalogue.
However, today’s problem concerned my jeans.
I own four pairs of them, each with more denim patches sewn around the buttock areas than original material that was present at the time of purchase. Every now and again I sew on another one when a new hole appears thereby ensuring they remain perfectly serviceable for virtually every occasion.
Most of the time this presents no problem whatsoever but every once in a while a particularly thin area gives way and a new rip appears.
Today while I was happily sat on the sofa watching the television this happened.
I didn’t realise anything had occurred until mother-in-law gave a high-pitched screech and pointed towards my crotch.
“Eughhh!! For God’s sake cover that up”
“What?”
“That…thing!”
Another piece of material had given up its struggle for decency and my balls, in all their hairy glory were merrily swaying back and forth for the entire World to see.
I tucked them back in and wandered upstairs to put on a pair of tracksuit trousers.
This is not the first time I’ve inadvertently exposed myself to a member of the household but it is the first time an offending organ has been in such close proximity to the mother-in-law.
I’ve been banned from repairing them and told to get a new pair on the weekend.
Even I have to concede that this time I don’t really have a choice.
My erstwhile sponsor also made a choice of continuing to throw money into my account and thereby ensured that after yesterday’s mishap I’m still able to continue on my quest for poker immortality.
As usual I went completely mad and quickly blew $12.20 of my newly acquired wealth on three tournaments where I finished close to the money in each one but not close enough to recoup the entrance fees.
Figuring that I had to retreat and reassess my strategy, I decided against any further games for the day and retired to the bedroom with a needle and cotton and tried to put another patch on the lump of material that used to be an article of clothing.
When I ventured back to the living room, mother-in-law was watching something dreadful on the TV and still brooding about the earlier performance of my testicles. There were no raised voices but I did receive a prolonged lecture on decency and self-respect.
She also sided with her daughter and insisted I go on a shopping trip to avoid the same thing happening again. Her finishing argument was the thing that clinched it for me.
“How would you like it if I flashed my bits at you every time I sat down?”
I thought about it for a couple of moments, managed to keep my dinner down and had no option but to agree with her.
My only plea is that to prevent such an unbelievably repugnant image happening in reality is that she takes to wearing at least three sets of underwear and a pair of surgical stockings under her clothing.
Or a very big piece of Hessian sacking.
Starting bank: $0.00
Current bank: $68.94