Humiliation

I've said this before, and I'll say it again: I love cargo pants. Give me pockets, lots of pockets. I carry a lot of chattel around, and, dammit, I need pockets. But cargo pants can be a cruel mistress.

Monday morning, I pulled my cargo pants on like any other day. As I tugged on both sides of the front of the pants, to allow the necessary clearance in order to fasten them, I marvelled at the strong little button hanging on for dear life. Just as I was appreciating the strength of the thread that served as a button-lifeline, it gave up and popped off. There's nothing quite as depressing as the unmistakeable sound of a stressed-out button bouncing away on a hardwood floor.

I lowered myself gently to ground-level and looked under the dresser. I could see it, but it was too far out of reach. Humiliated, I removed the button-less cargo pants and threw them in the corner. They are dead to me.

Wearing a pair of wrinkle-free khakis, I poured my coffee and looked over at Mrs. Undaground, who was enjoying some morning toast.

"The button fell off of my cargo pants. They're dead."

"Did you find the button?"

"It's cowering in fear under the dresser. I can't reach it."

"I can fix it."

"How? Liposuction? Do they make maternity clothes for men? I don't want to move up to the next size. It's a big, round number. I'd rather wear sweatpants at all times. I could be the sweatpants guy."

"I'll sew it back on."

"Very well, thanks."

Damned birthday cheesecake. Why do you taste so good? Is there a vegetable that tastes like cheesecake? Why not? Why is the United States Senate so concerned with a gay marriage amendment when they could be funding research to make vegetables taste like cheesecake. If I wasn't so apathetic, I'd be really pissed right now.