Thursday, August 03, 2006

My brothers and sisters, The Ford comes to you today with the dilemma of pants.

Yes, the dilemma of pants.

Sure, that might just sound like a catchy Paul Simon-esque tune, but really, that's what The Ford was dealing with last week.

Oh, not exclusively. There were plenty of other dilemmae to deal with.

But pants were certainly one of them.

Y'see, as you may've heard from the many sources of Ford and Ford-related news, The Ford was on vacation last week.

It turns out that when The Ford's mind is freed from the drudgery and mindlessness ... er ... thrill and challenge of work, his thoughts turn to fashion.

In short, he turns into Paris Hilton, though without the TV show, millions of dollars, and tiny dog. (Don't worry, he's still got the risque attire and slightly contrived situations to fall back on.)

And thus, pants.

The Ford needs pants.

Sure, he's got pants now, but he's also been losing some weight, and, well, his increasingly baggy pants keep getting caught on the heels of his shoes.

Yeah, yeah, such a tough life.

Trouble is, The Ford is tall. Tall enough to get asked by random people in Dunkin' Donuts about his exact height. (Actually, The Ford supposes this isn't much of a proof of being tall, as much as it is a proof of being some sort of height outlier.)

Of course, he's not quite tall enough to get paid $400K a year to look awkward in nylon warmups and clap for other, much, much, much more talented tall men.

But his legs are. Yeah, legs of a power forward, torso of a pro bowler.

And thus, The Ford tends to get a bit frustrated buying pants.

Turns out that stores anticipate fat people's pants-buying needs pretty well. REALLY well. Seriously, The Ford's getting damn tired of seeing row after row of 42x30 pants, and yet not being able to find a single pair in his size.

They do slightly worse with tall people's pants-buying needs, but still, the thought's there. You'll find the occasional 36 inseam, maybe a 38 even. Of course, they're all with waists of 28 to 32, raising the possibility that stores are really just preparing for the eventual Shawn Bradley/Manute Bol/Yao Ming combined shopping spree.

And somewhere, lost in that Venn diagram, lies The Ford, thick AND tall. Not disturbingly so, at least, not any more so than Jim Thome. Thome, people, Thome.

Yes, The Ford is a man of many contradictions, deep and mysterious in his complexity, all drawn together by a great and abiding fury. Er, Fury.

And that Fury, my friends? It's all about pants.

Y'see, should The Ford actually encounter pants that fit him exactly, he's forced to buy them, right then and there, lest some other Ford-sized (or Thome-sized, as it may be) fellow chance upon them and take advantage of his great fortune. He cannot stop to consider style, or fabric type, because, well, at some point, any jeans are better than walking around in The Official Boxer Briefs. Probably.

The Ford has a dream. The Ford has a dream that, one day, the sons of the fat and the sons of the tall will be able to sit down at a table together, secure in the knowledge that everyone's pants fit well and look good. The Ford has a dream, a dream that he could enter a store, see a pair of pants his size, and be able to walk away, secure in the knowledge that the next store he visits will also have pants his size. Yes, The Ford has a dream, that, someday, he will not judge his pants by the capacity of their construction, but rather by the content of their denim.

And when that day comes, we shall all stand up, the skinny and the stout, the Thome-sized and the tiny, the Hilton heiresses and The Fords, and shout, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last! Oh, and what do you think of these shoes?"



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