Here I am yesterday on a sunny Los Angeles street corner, looking for rare birds.
OK, am I really looking for birds?
No, I just wanted to show-off my hand-crafted sword-dueling pantaloons with crotchular breeze vents.
Women love the way my tight, ample and perfectly symmetrical buttocks beg to be kneaded in these knickers. What am I ladies, just a bowl of bagel dough for your fingers to squeeze like so many firm, juicy melons?
I'm not a fruit stand, I'm a man with feelings and dreams.
Chicks are nothing but a bunch of horny mountain goats when they see me in these groin-snuggling suede 18th century barn workpants.
However I'm thankful someone finally developed pants that enable your genitals to breathe. If you could picture a pair of nuts hanging from the bow of the Titanic in Category 4 hurricane, then you’ve just imagined the comfort and freedom my testicles experience in these airy, lightweight chocolate trousers.
Ahhh....nothing cools and refreshes a dampened, musty taint like a stiff breeze.
Unfortunately, disassembling an aft sail for a China-bound schooner is easier than taking a piss in this pair of fucking puzzle-crotched brainteasing goddamn pirate relics.