By Wrapping Paper of St. Paul, Minnesota! Thanks, Tim!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

By The Seat of Your Pants

Today, we’ve got a couple of decent looking dining room chairs:

These firm, sturdy and, dare I say, handsome seats look to be in pretty good shape. (And, as you know, I’m well-versed in The art of Chair-ery.)

The fact that there’s practically no wear on these items means one of three things:

A: The NeighborGooder was meticulous about chair care while in use in their luxurious home in the Hollywood Hills.

B: Someone purchased them specifically for a Very Important Meeting at the NeighborGoodies Table, and left them there upon completion of Said Meeting.

Or C: The chairs sat empty in the NeighborGooder’s apartment for years, serving as a reminder that no matter how many seats you have in your home, no one will sit in them if they hate you.

Each day, those chairs would sit beneath the dining room table, where a popular person would host dinner parties and game nights... and Oh! how the chairs would wish for an ass to perch upon them! Now, through the miracle that is the NeighborGoodies Table, one of the asses in my building will be able to fulfill this furniture’s lifelong dream..

And wouldn’t that ass look incredible in these Sexy Jeans?

From Emale Industry’s Denim Division…

…these jeans are just lying on the table, likely full of poo (why else would you discard a pair of jeans?) just waiting for someone to take them. There's always something creepy to me about used jeans, and I can't quite put my finger on it. It may be because of the time my roommate and I were walking around somewhere in Hollywood with one of the asses from the building, and we stumbled upon a pair of filthy Diesel jeans laying on someone’s front lawn—with a pair of underwear still inside.

You just know that whatever the events were that lead to those jeans being on the lawn, it wasn't pretty. So you can imagine how revolting it was when The Ass went over to the discarded jeans… and picked them up. My roommate and I recoiled in horror as The Ass jumped around excitedly with the dirty denim in his hands. He was psyched because they were Diesel Jeans—in his size! He let the briefs (which, I think it is safe to assume, were soiled) drop to the ground and brought the jeans with us, despite our protests: “You’re going to get feces in the car!”

“They’re Diesel!” he cried, “These things are expensive!”

So is treatment for Hepatitis, ass.

Weirdly, we stopped going to his apartment after that. Hmm... Come to think of it, those chairs do look kinda familiar...

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