As a child I hated denim. The look, the feel, it butchered my belief in comfort. "How could something so stylistically popular be fiendishly unpractical." Of coarse, this was my rational at the age of 6. Seeing that I had scaled mountains, fought off the lions of Tunisia, and had realized that the 'American Standard' toilet company was a front company based in Dubai. Oh, by the wit of Akbar!
Anyway, it wasn't until a fortnight, or twelve, later that I awoke to the magic of denim. It is corporal mortification! Thereby, when you wear new denim you were killing for flesh to cleaning your soul. In the mountains of Nepal, I had heard whispers of this but never fully grasped this. But, after learning that there was a black market in Eastern Europe, that I could clearly see. Russian missionaries spread the gospel, through DENIM. The following year, I had gone through 32 pairs of jeans. There where no holes in the knees, no wrinkles. They appeared in all cases pristine. But, it wasn't until my mother provided me with the ultimatum of, denim or a new voltron action figure that I stopped by this solice finding behavior.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ga0ohgZFVqc
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