sl**ks

I hate the word slacks. I hate the knife-sharp crease it implies, the tucked-in smugness, the hands-on-hips indignation, all of it. Clearly, there's nothing slack about slacks. See how annoying that word is?

You all know I'm talking about Bradley.

Pants, man. Just wear pants and fucking relax already. The world is not calibrated to fit your precise and exquisitely anal retentive vision of appropriateness.

I shudder to think what sort of wretched filth swirls in the chthonic depths of your subconscious. Repression is very dangerous. I oughtta know.