First, I would like no one to join me in this prayer: Baruch atah adonei, eluheinu melech ha’olam, boreh p’ri ha-dishwasher, DVR, and overly-priced sushi bars. Amen.
THE BUTTON-DOWN JEANS. What is its purpose? I dunno and I’m not googling it. I’ll figure it out myself this time. It seems like these jeans are a product of backwards thinking. The zipper is a much faster and easier way to close one’s jeans, while the button-down – or button-up, as talentless-optimists like to call them – seems rudimentary.
Pondering the nature of its purpose, the first theory that comes to my mind is the big dick. The big dick has been the anchor of countless fantasies, but has also been the source of regrettable creations; Snooki, Clay Aiken, Andy Dick, to name a few. But for the big dick, the button-down jeans has ventilation and safety.
Most of us squirmed, while few sadists were aroused, at the scene in There’s Something About Mary when Ben Stiller had his huge Jewballs stuck in his chinos zipper. Was he wearing chinos? I dunno, but I like that word. To me, that scene was a stretch. Yes, it’s just for shits and giggles, but I don’t like when a scene is too far fetched, even in fiction. I’ve never heard of a Black person zipping up his dick, let alone a Jew. But then one day, I zipped up my pants and accidentally hit my gefilte. Ouch! I didn’t even have a hard-on. It stung a bit, but the zipper didn’t rip through my shnitzel like in the movie. I re-tucked my stuffed grape-leaf and matza balls into my pants, then sloooooowly zipped up. Images of Ben Stiller’s face were racing through my head. I laughed and apologized telepathically to Stiller for not believing him the first time. He has yet to forgive me. But, they wouldn’t have invented button-down jeans if this type of occurrence only happened once in a lifetime. Until then, I had gone my whole life without accidentally nipping the tip with a zip. But imagine if, instead of a gefilte, you had a French-baguette flopping in your trousers. Any urinal run could turn into a nightmare. You can’t prepare yourself for the zip, it’s instinct, you just have to be lucky not to make a misstep. And if you do slip, what then?… You bend over in agony, and then some random guy walks into the bathroom and sees you hunched over, moaning. He didn’t see this disaster unfold, so he assumes you’re moaning in climax. He thinks you just ejaculated in a public bathroom and he’s going to warn the hostess. What the fuck is he going to the hostess for? You really think she’s gonna go in there and sort this out? Try the custodian next time – or better yet, a surgeon. Don’t assume that person just masterbated. Look closer, he sliced his French Baguette. Get the man some morphine and sutures.
Speaking of the French. EAU DE TOILETTE. Why hasn’t Clinton, Bush, or Obama ever brought this to Congress’s attention? (haha, Congress’s, Congress’s’s’s’s’s’s. Know what I mean?…) Are the French self-loathing or do they really think the idea of scents from a toilet is appealing? Whatever the case, it matters not WHAT it’s called, it only matters WHY it’s called this. Google translator tells us that Eau De Toilette means Toilet Water…. Fascinating. Even google doesn’t know the true meaning. But let’s say you’re a 10 year-old curious kid. You happened to use google to translate Eau De Toilette, so now you think the liquid in that little bottle daddy sprays himself with is toilet water. But it makes him smell awesome, somehow. So you spray some on yourself before school; and wouldn’t you know it, all the girls flock to you. So you keep using daddy’s “Toilet Water” until you realize the bottle is nearly empty. Uh Oh! Thankfully, there is plenty of real toilet water in the toilet bowl, so you dip the bottle in and refill it so daddy won’t find out you’ve been using all month long….. Phew….. Ooops, there’s a little poop-chunk in the bottle this time; mmmm, mmmm, mmmm, all the more French.
But more to the point, I believe the origin of Eau De Toilette came from a Frenchman – or Frenchwoman, for all you cute feminists out there (Ugly feminists not included because I don’t like angry feminists. Do your research: an angry feminist is an ugly feminist). Anyway, this French-PERSON came to America and sat on the toilet-seat and smelled the sweet, sweet scents of a hotel lobby-bathroom, possibly in the Plaza Hotel in NYC. The scent was coming from fragrance-sticks near the sink, but the Frenchy never washes his hands so he couldn’t have seen them on his way out. The Frenchy was astonished this bathroom smelled so good. In his lifetime, he never smelled a room so fresh. Intrigued, he went up to a random person in the lobby:
“Excuse-moi, Monsieur. Besides the smell from my shit, what was that amazing scent in the bathroom?”
“I dunno, pal. Probably some scented toiletries.”
“How you say? You say ‘toilet’ ?”
“Yea… toilet… Fucking psycho.”
“Yes, O.k., merci monsieur….. Hhmmmmmmm, toilet-scent…”
The Frenchy is pathetic, smelly, gutless, but a genius. He brought his patented toilet-inspired scents back to Paris whereupon Eau De Toilettes spread throughout France faster than the Black Plague on ‘have sex with everyone at work’-day. So now you know why the French smell like toilets.
***By the way, the Black Plague can be mistaken for, but is not, a racist reference such as Blackmail or a Black-mark. The Bubonic Plague was often referred to as The Black Plague because of the black spots that the disease produced on the skin. Keeping in mind that the White Plague, known today as the White Man, is still the deadliest disease of all***