To My New Pair of Jeans:

You smug, stonewashed, sorry excuse for a pair of jeans. You hung there on the clearance rack at my local Targét just begging to be bought. Such a cheap price, and in my size? I had to purchase you, but, alas, I did not have time to try you on. Now I wish that I had bought out the time to do so because you are not the pair of jeans that I thought I was getting involved with. Now I see that your cheap price was fitting because you are a cheap whore.

What is my issue with you? Two words: button fly. Now, I'm no historian, but I'd wager that the button fly is probably the most diabolical invention known to man (I rank the atom bomb as a close second since I've never personally been affected by an atom bomb, but I have been affected by the button fly). The button fly adds approximately 30 seconds to each bathroom trip. How did I get that statistic? Simple, I made it up, but it sounds pretty accurate. Multiply that by 30 (the number of times that I use the bathroom per day [I drink a lot of water]), and you arrive at the astounding total of 90 minutes (I think, but I'm not a calculator). 90 minutes stolen from my day by the button fly! That's enough time to watch 3 Men and a Baby (the greatest movie of all time because it's got a little bit of everything)! Nice job, button fly. You just stole from me the joy of Steve Guttenberg, Tom Selleck, and Ted Danson (RIP).

In many ways, dear disappointing denim, you are just like my first wife. You looked like a great bargain, but once I got you home, I saw another side of you. Coincidentally, your surprise (the button fly) is located in the same "area" that my first wife's "surprise" (read: wiener) was. Just like my first wife, though, I was ready to overlook your shortcomings, but then you crossed the line when you prevented me from watching 3 Men and a Baby.