Ain't Karma a Bitch?

Warning: Some material ahead that people I went to grad school would label "TMI".

You've been warned.

So, I have an unusually long ass-crack. Some people have borne witness to this phenomenon of my backside first hand. For those, I wish you Godspeed in your recovery from going all Oedipus Rex on yourself after witnessing it. Seriously, it's like, mutant long. If I were a member of the X-Men, I'd go by the name 'Crack'. It's bad. Most people's stop halfway or three-quarters of the way up their backside. Mine? Stops somewhere just below my shoulderblades.

As such, I need special jeans. I need the "long rise" jeans, which are hard to find because almost everyone makes "low rise" jeans these days. Low rise jeans are fine, especially for hot young blonde models, preferrably female. Not to say I'm picky. I wouldn't mind them on a brunette or a redhead, either. Anyway, to the point of the story, I have only a couple good pairs of jeans, and the other day I noticed that the pocket area was beginning to fray a little on my favorite jeans. No biggie, I thought. It is almost time for that jolly fat man to slide down my chimney. Perhaps HE could have luck finding me appropriate-length long rise jeans, preferrably in a darker shade of blue. Something in the indigo family. Thanks, fat man.

Alas, Christmas will be coming early this year, at least for my ass.

Turns out that when I was sitting down this morning to work in my notebook, I heard a small ripping sound. Aghast, I reached back and touched me bum, only to find that a large rent had formed in the fabric. Well, it's not so bad, I thought. I can just pull my shirt tail down over it. Plus, I need to be in the lab for most of the day. I can sport my lab coat.

So, I head off to the lab. There, I get some of my work done, only to drop one of my keen Chembark magnets on the floor while tidying up the post-its hanging from my hood. I bend over to reach for it, and there again sounds a mighty rip from my backside! Tenderly, I explore the area to find that a chasm has now opened in my pants. If I keep my shirt pulled low, I can cover most of the offending area. In a panic, I hurry out of the lab (losing the labcoat...safety first) and rush to my desk. I go to sit, and, you guessed it (comedy does, after all, work in threes), one final rip. Now, most of my backside is exposed to the elements. Thusly, I sit here after calling my wife and kindly asking her to bring me a fresh pair of pants from home. I can't help but think that this is all due to me laughing at the False Oz as he tried to stand and walk after his midday nap upon the picnic benches out back.

Ah Karma, you fickle, fickle whore.