The Penis Patch

It's my finger!

 

No, the title doesn't refer to a perverted pumpkin patch. Get yer minds out of the gutter! Rather I'm here to relate a true, traumatic tale of tears and...well, a tear.

Everyone who knows me is familiar with my constantly fluctuating body weight. What can I say; I'm an ever-evolving work in progress. Alas, these days, my pandemic pounds are on the upper end of the scale.

What's the point to all of this when you want to read about the "Penis Patch," I hear you shouting at your computer screens? Patience.

Anyway, my added weight makes it pointless to go drop sixty bucks on a new pair of jeans when I hope to lose the weight again. So, I go shopping at "Savers," a local chain of so-called, higher quality thrift stores.

And when I say "shopping," it's a guy's favored way to "shop:" dash in the store, grab something that looks passable and is close to the desired size, and get the hell out.

That's what I did. 3 minutes, Boom! "New" pair of jeans. Or so I thought.

Of course I hadn't tried them on until we were out of town recently. And after trotting them out in public, getting comfy in them all day, it wasn't until I sat down when I realized something ghastly. There was a denim patch right over where the penis sat.

 Horrors! 

The mere thought I was wearing some guy's hand-me-down jeans and his monster junk burst the jeans wide open was nearly too much to handle. I felt a good need to scrub with a Brillo pad. And now that I'd finally noticed the patch, it was extremely noticeable.

Quietly, I called my wife over. She responds with a laugh, and says, "We need to go get you some new jeans. Now."

I poo-poohed the notion, assured her they'd be fine. After all, we had places to go, people to see, and penis patches to show off.

That's when things got worse. Much worse. Exposingly worse.

The penis patch didn't hold. Soon it ripped open and there I was, flapping in the wind. In public. Now I knew what it felt like to wear crotchless chaps. Mercifully, my two nephews were with us, so I had them run subterfuge and walk in front of me.

Later, at the hotel, I just accepted my loss and pitched the ill-fated jeans into the trash, where I can only imagine the house-cleaning staff's reaction upon discovery.

So, let my tragic tale of tears, a tear, and undesired exposure ring as a warning to every guy out there; there's a reason used jeans cost seven bucks.

While we're on the topic of "tearing," in my short story collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, there's a Bigfoot tale that's a "ripping" good time, if you get my drift, along with many other fine stories beloved by a couple of my relatives.