You can bet being born with a girlish girth like mine I’m no
stranger to buttery muffins, especially when they flaunt their top floppiness
over my beltline. Sprouting a couple of monster-truck size spare tires wouldn’t
be much of an issue if only I had pants that would cooperate with a little extra
room in the ‘trunk’. Yes it has always been daring duty for my dungarees to
show some ligature love for my hearty handles and contain at least some of my tons-of-fun
‘gut-bucket’.
I’m not complaining for comfort sake alone mind you, because given the
right conditions there is a genuine community safety concern here. Oh sure you
scoff but it is irresponsible pushing my plump bumps around in public without a
red flag tied to my denim-covered tail and no ‘beeper’ when I back up. People
need to be forewarned to clear the area whenever I leave the crypt to venture
among the living, with but a single button to cinch my withers and bind my
booty.
Unsuspecting spectators should be particularly mindful if I engage
in a hearty laugh or take-in an ill-advised deep breath followed by a cacophonous
cough and sneeze at the trough. Those kind of untimely table manners among the
good and guiltless can sadly result in potentially life-scarring tragedy and
terror. Who among us is ever truly
prepared to face the wrath of unexpected pasty projectiles of varying fiber
content, and the frightening possibility of a bursting button bullet to fly in
the eye.
Clearly for the sake of innocent bystanders if not personal
pride alone, I am again at a ripe ol’ age which requires ‘rear-wrangling’ rubber
pants or other devices to safely provide tum-tucking button back-up. I have
already begun to greet geezer-dom with gusto so I’m becoming something of an
expert at ripping and zipping Velcro especially when bending my supple rump-skin over for a
sophomoric snicker or to simply shore up my Scholl’s. Though I have indeed gotten a lot wider than
wiser with age you shouldn’t worry how I buttress the buttons on my britches
since apparently jean splicing is in my genes … after all as a baby I was told
that I really knew how to ‘fill-out’ a
diaper!
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