Sir Pants: A Tragic Comedy of Misfortuned Existence

Sir Pants loathed every day he was tailored to experience. Entangled on the cold wooden floor, the sun would warm his putrid pile state. His owner would rise sooner or later, more later, or more later-est (depending on beers ingested the night before) and, after a watery relief ritual a room away, would inevitably pull Sir Pants, one leg at a time, over his hairy legs, followed and shortly outdone by his soiled underpants, tug on the zipper a time or two, or three, or four (again, entirely dependent on his nightly brew intake) and out the door into his, and Sir Pants’, meaningless day.

Normally, Sir Pants would be subjected to the chalked and stained upholstery of his keeper’s pickup truck, thundering down the highway to the lumberyard where his denim prowess protected his hated sire from the shrapnel of slivers.

Today, though, was different. It was laundry day. Sir Pants found his legs hanging clumsily out the washer. The bleach was just in reach. It was time to end it all for good. Sir Pants was purified.

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