No Size-36 Pants Can Contain Me

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Vol 46 Issue 25

CC Sabathia Involved In Bench-Clearing Nap 

NEW YORK—The entire Yankees squad poured off the bench, out of the dugout, and onto the field Monday after CC Sabathia reacted to a particularly strenuous inning by plopping down on the bench, stretching out, and taking a nap.

Pirates Sign Guy Who Successfully Jogged Across Street

PITTSBURGH—The Pittsburgh Pirates signed Greensburg, PA resident Clark Goldwater Monday after a team scout witnessed the 36-year-old fan run across a street near PNC Park, hand a set of keys to a friend, and maintain a steady clip on his way back to...

Senior Getting Great Funeral Ideas From Friends

TAMPA, FL—As he nears his 83rd birthday next month, local man Robert Lech told reporters that attending dozens of funerals over the past several years has given him "tons of great ideas" for his own memorial service, and has really opened his eyes to what a funeral can be.

Joe Mauer

The Twins catcher has three batting titles in the past four years, was the 2009 AL MVP, and is up top in 2010 All-Star voting. Is he any good?

Unwritten Rules Of Baseball

Baseball is a sport rich in tradition, and many of its most sacred rules and practices are passed from player to player. Onion Sports lists the most revered of baseball's unwritten rules:
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FIFA Frantically Announces 2015 Summer World Cup In United States

ZURICH—After the Justice Department indicted numerous executives from world soccer’s governing body on charges of corruption and bribery, frantic and visibly nervous officials from FIFA held an impromptu press conference Wednesday to announce that the United States has been selected to host this summer’s 2015 World Cup.

Personal Finance

No Size-36 Pants Can Contain Me

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.

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