Open Letter to the Guy with the Chain on his Pants

Dear Tough Guy,

I couldn’t help but notice that clunky length of hardware you have bouncing off your hip connecting your trousers to your pocket hole. I have to ask, is that chain an ill-advised fashion statement? A half-ass security measure? Is it part of some advanced underwear security system? Is it a wedgie-blocker?? Some type of jock lock-up? Well, don’t flatter yourself my friend. And for the record, I only ask to be educated.

In all fairness, I know nothing about you link-slingers on an intimate level. You might all be absolutely awesome people but then again it’s just as likely that you’re all total tool bags. It’s just the law of averages, nothing personal. All the more reason, though to speculate as to the purpose of your linkage. And so in my quest for knowledge I find myself wondering if you somehow thought stringing a lamp chain around yourself like garland on a Christmas tree would make you look rougher and tougher than nature intended. Is that it? Is it? Is the terrier tether part of some muscle-headed, jizz-fueled muscular makeover? Of course. That’s it. Because there’s nothing like chains strong enough to restrain a diarrheic Labradoodle to really ramp up the cut of a marshmallow physique. Face it, Brutus. That chain is about as manly an accessory as a furry pink coin purse made from a flamingo’s ball bag. And I say this as someone that considers sleeves a luxury item. In my world, hats and underwear are interchangeable garments. And even so, I wouldn’t sport a chain. But if it’s style you want, I say go full bore and match up some elephant chain suspenders with a few iron ingots for your teeth and a solid steel neck medallion the size of a hubcap. Tell your chiropractor I said hello. Hell, you can dip your testes in molten metal while scratching your ‘roids with a crowbar for all I care. The important thing is that you’re happy… and stylish.

I realize that a lot of you leash junkies live in rural areas which leads me to wonder why anybody living outside of a bustling city would be so concerned with crime that they felt compelled to chain up their velcro wallet as if it were their seatless unicycle parked outside the mini-mart/gun club. After all, it doesn’t seem likely that Bambi’s descendents are going to run out of the woods with AKs wearing antler hoods just to grab your cobwebbed ass-purse and run with it into the headlights of an oncoming truck. It doesn’t add up. The padlocked pocket theory simply doesn’t work. Even in the unlikely event that your wallet DID get grabbed by some greasy gonad gunning for your unused library card, the chain is probably gonna rip right off of your pants anyway as the dude waves good-bye like an Olympian unsprung. Think about it. The chain is anchored to a belt loop made of mystery material that was sewed on by tiny brown, underage fingers in a country where human dignity has the believability rating of the Great fucking Pumpkin. Even those fancy pleather belts you Wal-Martians wear would probably bust right through those flimsy loops once you’ve parked your tookus at the Chinese buffet for a few hours inhaling deep-fried missing pets. What kind of security is that? I suggest slipping the chain into your drawers and wrapping it around a deeply rooted appendage. Maybe, an attempted robbery can turn into a cheap thrill for somebody.

Of course, I also know that wallets could easily slip through a frazzled denim hole and disappear into the Phantom Zone forever. These things do happen and I’m sure the astronomical cost of needle and thread coupled with the need of a sewing degree makes this obstacle practically insurmountable. Just a crazy idea I’m throwing out here but maybe your pants need to be retired once they develop aftermarket windows in the pockets. Again, this is a view from the cheap seats. I’m just trying to understand your wisdom.

Now, I would never assume that you were all ex-cons but if I did I would probably apply the theory that you all learned in the hoosegow, never to bend over. Capital idea. So, maybe the wallet chain was invented by the same guy that created Soap-On-A-Rope to keep straight men vertical. Brilliant, but wouldn’t a bungee cord work better? At least, it would spring the wallet back up to pocket level. By the way, what is your Lowe’s value per foot, anyway? Four packs of cigs?

Now before you go getting your jingles in a jangle, you must realize that these questions come from a place of curiosity and concern. It’s just that I see nothing hip or happening about cutting a couple feet out of your dog’s leash and draping it at your side like holiday lights across your patio in the middle of summer. It’s just that it looks like something you could get from the clearance table in the S & M shop at the mall. Meanwhile, the poor dog is left wondering why he can’t reach the garbage pail from the porch anymore.

P.S. If you tether your dog with a rope or chain so you can go masturbate in peace, I will hunt you down and hurt you.

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Travelogue 2018

7:55 PM
I sit back and await takeoff. The seat is cramped but it is undeniably mine. My ticket says so. I know this, without question. Unlike the woman next to me, I required no assistance in finding my assigned place. I kick my bag beneath the seat, clutch my book and try to relax. The masses file in, many of them brushing heavily against me with their carry-on luggage and steamer trunks. My head is clipped by a large cumbersome object which I can’t identify.

8:01 PM
The man several rows ahead appears confused. He has blocked the aisle, stopping the flow of traffic. Ever so slowly he turns clockwise in place to view every angle of the passenger area. The rotation reverses as he scans the plane from the other direction. Time has stopped. He is looking for something. But what? The number on his ticket should correlate to the numbered tags posted above each row. He does not understand.

8:13 PM
Breathing anxiously, I gag slightly at a horrid realization. The old woman next to me is emitting an unsavory odor. A sour milk and urine mix has been personified in Seat 19B. I shield my face with my open book and discreetly enjoy the smell of its musty yellowed pages.

8:17 PM
Yet another man has stopped in the aisle, albeit only briefly. He has quickly stowed his luggage in the overhead compartment and courteously sat down. Less than a minute later, however, he has decided that he doesn’t need to wear his coat on the plane. He is on his feet again, inducing gridlock as he stashes his outerwear up above. Inadvertently, a woman in the aisle gets smacked in the face with a swinging parka sleeve. The man is unaware.

8:24 PM
My attention turns back to the first confused man. He was ultimately seated by an attendant who responded to his distress call, allowing other passengers to once again pass by. He looks comfortable and relaxed, now. His wife is whispering in his ear. She needs something. The man looks up towards the storage compartment. The object of her longing appears to be in their suitcase. He stands up obstructing the narrow aisle. The line of people backs up so far that the attendants cannot close the airplane door. The man stands on his toes as he rummages through the luggage in the overhead storage compartment. He is looking for something of vital importance. Minutes later, a bottle of water is drawn from the bag. He sits down.

8:31 PM
The passengers have stopped stirring and appear settled. At last, the pilot has announced our imminent departure. Time to buckle up. Upon hearing this, the woman with the water bottle stands up. She looks first towards the front of the plane, and then the back. Excusing herself, she steps into the aisle and looks around yet again. She has chosen the restroom towards the rear of the plane. A fine choice, I am sure. Eleven minutes later, she walks slowly back to her seat. She appears ill. Her soiled bottom leaves vapor trails by the nose of each seated person she passes. I cringe and bury my face further into my book.

8:35 PM
I close my eyes and ponder the feasibility of international bus travel.