T'was brilling, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. And then my pants ripped.
But first, let us begin at the beginning, which is always a wonderful place to begin.
I had a hole in the crotch of my work pants. It was a smallish hole, and I did not care. I wore them anyway. After a trip through the washing machine, the hole grew bigger. I did not care. I wore them anyway. After yet again another trip through the washing machine, the hole was bigger still. I did not care. I wore them anyway. That was my mistake.
It was boring as usual at work and so we whipped up a game of broom hockey with a jawbreaker. I lunged to the right to stop the jawbreaker, and low and behold, a great ripping sound assulted the air.
I felt a breeze. Such a glorious day to wear a thong.
The rip ran a good quarted way up my ass, leaving my bare ass cheaks exposed to the world. I dropped my broom and ran into the back non-discretely covering my bum.
Yep. There was a mighty hole there alright. Devon saw some skin. Lucky girl, eh? I wrenched my work shirt down as far as it could go and begged my manager to send me home to change. Through tears of laughter she granted this permission. Unfortunately, I did not have my car that day, but Devon got to leave as well and drove me home.
We stayed at my house for an hour (paid) and ate pizza pockets (they were good). And that, as they say, is that.The moral of this story is heed the condition of your clothing. Pants especially are vengeful articles, keep them in good repair.
The End
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