Ah... back from the salt mines. Who knew over-priced French Sea Salt was mined in the hummocks of West Pennsylvania? I most certainly didn't. Oh, the magic that is marketing, My Friends! It was Herculean work, and we lost a number of good chaps to mine collapses, but it's all for the good of spiking the blood pressure of an insatiably sodium-addicted public.
But what do I come home to after weeks of back breaking work? Is my penthouse festooned with "Welcome Home" banners and blithe balloonery? No. I come home to an automated computation device filled with angry electronic letters.
It seems some of you fine readers have rather rudely commented that I've started to fall off my message. That Chief Big Shot is sending up the wrong smoke signals. That my carrier pigeon has become a directionally-impaired turkey. More Dapperocity™ you demand! Less "What did Link find in his stool this morning". Well, I thought that you'd appreciate the amount of corn and barley in my mid-morning guano, but apparently I am horribly mistaken. So rather than pout like the wee little imp that I am, I will instead toughen up the teats and discuss more appropriately Dapper issues, since after all (read sarcasm here) you ARE paying so very much for this educational enlightenment!
Let's discuss PANTS & BELTS:
BUT... Before we address that, I'd like to first clear the air about some scuttlebutt, related to my southern hemisphere, making the rounds of the local bath houses: That I am, or am not, hung like a Belgian Draft Horse. Photos of the now infamous sword fight with Milton Berle in the litter box of the Zanzibar Club have recently resurfaced in Skin Fiesta magazine. First of all, that was an accidental crossing of sausage. Since the urinals are a smorgasbord-styled affair of one long porcelain trough, any wrong movement can result in a twisted knot of gent genitalia. I tacked left, Milton yawed right and... Well, you'll just have to see the snaps and judge for yourself. Or ask the lovely Ms. Mary Tyler Moore...
During a recent fashion shoot for Shempley's Department Store, Ms. Moore took such rapacious delight in perusing my bulging pants, that she couldn't take her eyes of them, there by ruining the whole sitting. Shame on you, Ms. Moore! But sadly, her dreams were horribly dashed, as I later pulled out the Hucklebuckle Farms™ Summer Sausage I regularly pack into my trousers for snack purposes. A man does need to get a big piece of sausage in his mouth now and then. Hmmm. Perhaps I should reword that.
So you see, my fine friends, I do not need a belt. For a man of my unparalleled style and natural effervescence does not need a slab of cowhide to keep his slacks from a droopin'. No, my pants stay aloft by the sheer magnetic and centrifugal force of my life-giving energies (and snack products). Well... that AND the fact that I only wear Sansabelt Action Pants from the Young Squire's Department at Shemply's. No need for moo skin with these adjustable togs. They put the the ACTION back in my pants where it belongs:
I'm ever so rudely asked by both the Cats and the Kittens, if they can "cop a feel" of my shiny 100% Dacron Action Pants. Like a moth to flame, crowds quickly gather, as they marvel at both the extreme tightness of my slacks, as well as the fact that they can see their most undapper reflections in them. Mouth agape, they drool and froth as I saunter, ever so dapper-like, into the local drinking hole or Hucklebuckle Farms to reload my Snack Sack™.
So there. Are you all happy now?
Excuse me while I now retire to the lavatory. BUT don't you worry, Dear Readers. I wouldn't think of BORING you with the details. And that's certainly a shame since I recently ate a very large bowl of pistachio pudding. Oh well. Your loss...