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| When I made the transition to HUSKY size late in my elementary school career, I cried in the department store, an Orbach's. I said to my Mom, "Husky means fat," and she said that it didn't, it meant that I was growing and that my proportions were out of wack and that everything would catch up. I bought three pairs of pants, all of which had to be hemmed by our taylor, this diabetic named Otto. I used to think getting things hemmed was a standard part of the ordeal of "PANTS" which I still consider to be a piece of Hell on Earth. Pants are just awful. Pants should be the great villain on Frankie's Apartment. Frankie's Pants are all members of a terrorist cell that include all pajama bottoms, bathing suits and even tightie whitie underwear. Their mission: to extract joy from the human organism, as payback for years of indentured servitude and the humiliation of being NUMBER TWO to upper bodywear, aka "THE ENEMY": shirts. The Pants ultimate goal is not world domination, it's something more sinister: they want to be worn as shirts. We once captured a particularly notorious pair of pants: an ancient pair of Mr. Parfenix's 501 button-fly's named Last Legs -- who escaped by hiding in a neighbor's laundry basket. When we questioned (and tortured) Mr. Last Legs we asked him why the Pants were so hellbent on taking down the Shirts -- he said, "Why should they have all the fun?" |
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| On that day when I first got my huskies, me and my mother came home to my Dad watching the old Black and White TV in their bedroom. "What does husky mean?" I asked him. "It means your fat," he said. |
