“Pearl always said the scent of Gain detergent made her weak in the knees.”
Really, Pearly Girl? Really? That’s all that it takes? You just need a deep huff of a little Spring Mist or Citrus Rain (great name for a psychedelic dub band) to get those gelatinous, post-menopausal loins a-quivering to the point of climax?
Because I’ll level with ya, Pearlster I just don’t see it. I have yet to ever open the top of a detergent for a quick nosedive (especially in public) and if I have, it hasn’t been the wafting fumes of steamy, ‘70s mustached sex that I’ve experienced (that’s only at Christmas). It’s been the wreaking concentrated peroxidial gases of a chemical burn/clean’s sword that my brain cells have fallen to: a heinous blend of vinegar, gasoline, fermented Old Spice and a dash of liquid carbon monoxide whenever I crack a bottle for a load of darks.
“…New Gain detergent with fabric softener. Better get ready to hold onto something, Pearl.”
That’s right, ole Pearl Necklace, better bust out the silk ties and bedposts for that silver bullet of stain-removing pleasure. Pick your Safe Word now, because it’s going to be a long night at the Laundromat, baby. But go slow. I’m saving myself for the Delicates.
Or maybe we can forgo the silk ties/bedpost fantasies. If fabric softener is the big seller for you, then you’re probably too goddamn weak and breakable to take much more than a gentle flamingo feather brushed softly around the areolas.
What the fuck have we come to?
Is our pussification finally complete? Have we sunk to the lowest rung of Vapid Hell? I am by no means a tough, rugged, burly, callous-and-mud kind of guy, but how haemophilic do you have to be whereby the only way to survive is with fabric softener? That cotton blend too rough? Those jeans not bending at the knee like they should?
Fuck you, you puss.
Life is struggles and sacrifices. It’s about working through shit that you hate because you have a glimmer of hope—whether it’s tangible or not—somewhere in the back of your mind that says that whatever you’re doing today will lead to something slightly less terrible tomorrow and something pretty goddamn awesome at some place down the line.
You know what would be pretty great right now? Doing heroin. I’m talking serious Mother Theresa (look it up) shit. Honest. I’ve heard a lot about it and am curious to see if it’s all they say. You know why I don’t? Because I know it would fuck stuff up for me later on. I am making the sacrifice of not mainlining murder (look it up) because of that faint glimmer of hope that says that maybe I’ll go on to do something awesomer (like getting a Wild Turkey IV straight into my trachea). And you know what? When I finally get that whiskey pumping directly into my throat, I’m going to look back on today and be glad I didn’t debate the merits of the various James Bond actors while a dead baby lays in the other room (Jesus H, look that shit up!) because fuck man, I’ve got a booze IV!!!
So how am I going to bring a discourse on my drug and booze-themed life-goals back to fabric softener?
Awkwardly.
When you pussified assholes buy fabric softener, you’re missing out on the whole concept of having “favourite clothes”. Not just ‘I always put on my favourite grey v-neck with the pink graffiti down the side whenever it’s t-shirt Tiiiimmme!! (don’t look it up)’. No, I mean having a bond with a pair of pants that is more than just sexual.
Do you have a bond with a pair of pants that is more than just sexual? I didn’t think so.
I do.
I have a pair of jeans that I bought five years ago. I’m wearing them now. I have no idea what brand they are, but I can absolutely state that they were no more than $19.99 since that is my ceiling for slacks.
Do you have a slacks ceiling? I didn’t think so.
These five-year-old jeans are the jeans of angels. They are a safe harbour in stormy trouser seas. They are raggedy-cuffed like the lines in an old sailor’s face. They are my anchor when I drift too far from home.
They are my campground when I pitch a tent.
I could’ve had this type of comfort years ago. I could’ve doused them in fabric softener and had them reach this stage within a matter of washes. But I chose to wait. I chose to work them in, to let them age and gain wisdom as their wearer did. We had some rough times. Some chaffing times. Some times where I was ready to pull them off and cast them aside but others said, “No. Keep them on. Let them stay. I’m calling the cops.” And so they stayed.
So now, I have an incredible pair of jeans with a million stories to tell about them and in their waning years through the worn places, the cuffless places, and the stains not of my own making, I have a friend who earned their place in my heart.
Good luck holding onto that, Pearl.
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