I used to be cool when I was younger. A bass player, long hair, had the chops down. I would only wear jeans that were faded and torn until my nutbag hung out. Tank tops to show off my studly six-pack -- you know, Mr. Rock Star. Frye boots or solid white K-Swiss tennees were the only thing I would put on my feet. Parachute pants were cool, too, until I was walking down the street one day and a passing driver called me a fag; I almost took them off in the middle of the street.

This only-the-name-brand habit lasted until I was about forty. The clothes just didn't seem to work any more. I have always looked younger than I was, but time and gravity conspired to fuck me up. My belly started to stick out -- you know, all the stuff age does. I think it is nature's way of ensuring that if you are not married, you will never get laid again.

I shop at Costco for tons of food, and one day I discovered they sold jeans and shirts. They were Kirkland brand and were pretty decent. At first I felt silly wearing jeans with the same logo as my frozen peas, but they were so inexpensive I almost started believing in God. But I got over it. If only for that logo!!

While picking up my prescriptions at Walgreens one day, I walked around and stumbled into the greatest finds ever: five t-shirts for ten dollars, and this thing they call Bag O Socks. Ten pairs of cotton socks for five dollars. Sweat pants, sweat shirts (three for ten dollars), and these drawstring pajama-bottom things that were perfect for bed and just lounging around the house. I now shop at Costco and Walgreens for my fashions, and the only people who know are other cheap ass-fuckers like me. The selections are not very varied.

It is well-known on this site that I have had serious problems with constipation in the past. It has not been as bad as it used to be, since my doctor gave me this stool-softening suppository that I pound up my ass every two weeks. It's about the size of a forty-five caliber bullet; it feels uncomfortable at first, but I have gotten used to it.

The years of birthing table legs have stretched my ass wider than that chick who was in that ass bang orgy porno where a hundred guys plowed this bored chick's butthole until it was a bright red, steaming sewer. Unfortunately I still only go every week-and-a-half, and although the turds are still long and wide, they are much softer. I have described these as my monkey tail; they are almost enjoyable, and I am not crying when I leave the bathroom any more. Now when I feel the pangs of the inevitable, I don't break out in a cold sweat and no longer have to wear my mouth guard to protect my clenching teeth.

About four months ago, I was watching the Discovery Channel, relaxed on the couch in my cheap Walgreens drawstring pajama bottoms. I was drinking a cup of coffee and just enjoying life when my semi-monthly visit to the bathroom announced itself. I walked unafraid to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, and pulled my Walgreens drawstring bow into a Walgreens drawstring knot. I tried to untie the knot, but I had pulled it so tight and my nails are so short that there was no way I was going to get it untied before hell was unleashed. I tried to just pull the pajamas over my ass -- no way!

I hopelessly stood there while what was meant for the commode slowly made its way down my leg. It felt like a black mamba was escaping from my ass. Fuck me!! I knew I was going to toss the pajamas and take a shower after this nightmare, but I did not want to have to clean shit off the floor. So I stuck my foot into the toilet. I figured that once cleaved, I could shake the snake out down by my ankle. I stood there with my foot in this cold water, looking for a scissors or nail clippers to cut the drawstring, when wave number two started. This was fucked up. It started going down the other leg. I just stood there and took it -- I was not going to put both feet in the toilet. I am just not athletic enough. There must have been nine pounds of shit in my pants.

It's been a long time since I shit standing up; I must admit it was not that bad.

I opened the medicine cabinet and found toenail clippers. I got the drawstring cut, pulled my now-frozen foot out of the pot, and slowly started to roll the pajamas and the Mambas into what resembled a giant grey flannel pretzel. I tossed the thing into the wastebasket that I ironically line with Walgreen bags. I did end up with crap on the seat and the floor. I was pissed, too, but I had to laugh. I am just glad no one was there to witness that shit!

While standing there, I had a funny thought. I imagined being at the tailors, being asked the question men hate: "What side do you dress on?" I would have to answer, "Back, left, and right."