The Day is Done

Since ripping the string from my favorite adidas sweat pants and nearly all other thread except for the teflon backing that once held the two together, my sweats have started to mysteriously disappear. My girlfriend and I call them "Judies", because more often than not you will find Kristin's mom in comfort wear, her name is Judy.

Aside from my "go-to's", nice, greyish-black, adidas sweatpants that I destroyed, I had some baggy-ass shits that Paul Pierce may sport, a pair of paint-stained nike's, and a nice pair of windpants. They've recently started disappearing at an alarming rate.

First, I murdered the adidas pair for its lace, and the others have vanished with out a trace. I started to believe that all my "Judies" were pissed and left, because I destroyed one of their own.

I've now had one of the worst days at work in a short while, did far less than a days quota of work, crediting dismantling the company printer and cleaning out the drums earlier in the week for my laziness, and the boss had a cunty attitude. Surprisingly, I didn't have an ounce of road rage on teh way home, probably because I knew I was going home to a pair of "Judies" and a bottom drawer full of Rolling Rocks.

I check the closet, every friggen drawer in the house, upstairs, downstairs, all the piles, the washer, the dryer; there are no fucking "Judies" anywhere! Khakis, jeans, shorts, underwear, pleated work pants (a pair of which I had on), yet no "Judies".

Its 48 degrees out, blowing thirty, and more raw than a freshly-slapped-ass. I'm angrier than a wild boar coming off a cocaine binge, and nearly give in to lounging around in my pleated Perry Ellis slacks when I see them. Long forgotten and under appreciated, initially mistaken for a blanket. Dark blue and baggy, like raver pants, and fleece. Quite possibly the ugliest pants known to man. However, what they lack aesthetically they make up for with supreme comfort.

I slip on these bad-ass "Judies" and crack my first of six Rolling Rocks and know, the day is done.