Brad Brown

Haggar Stealth Stretch Pants

In the old days, it was easy to spot a person wearing stretch pants. The ruffled, elastic material gripped the waist of the chubby individual much like the red band surrounding a slice of bologna. I wore stretch pants back then, and it didn’t bother me, mainly because I was a kid - I wasn’t image conscious at that age. As I grew older, I became chubbier and resorted to stretch pants as an alternative to weight loss. They were a dream, except for the stigma. I never knew why stretch pants were shunned by society, but I longed for the day when stretch pant wearers had equal rights.
 
In 1998, Haggar Pant Laboratories introduced the stealth stretch pant. Instead of the ruffled elastic along the entire perimeter of the pant, they put a tiny amount of elastic on each hip, hidden behind a waistband that separated slightly as you moved. Gone were the days of advertising your portliness every time you left the underground bunker. Now, you could blend in with athletic businessmen in their tailored Armani pants, and no one would be the wiser. It seemed like a miracle.
 

Crotch on Aisle Three

I stopped by the Kroger grocery store (#497) on my way home from UPS. I was dressed in business attire. At that time, UPS required all corporate employees to wear a suit and tie. I was able to skirt this requirement by wearing a sport coat with suit-like buttons. From one hundred feet or more, you’d swear it was an expensive a cheap suit. I also ditched suit pants for Haggar stretch pants (I believe they call them “comfort fit” so as to not embarrass the wearer). It was as close to corporate attire as one could get for under a hundred dollars.
 
On aisle three, I stooped down to pick up some oatmeal (the brand with Barbara Bush on the box). As I sat on my haunches, I felt a slight tugging, then a strange sense of coolness, as if my privates had their own air-conditioner. Unsettled by the chill, I quickly stood up, put my hands on my ass, and felt the strange sensation of red silk boxers. I looked down to see a rip in my precious pants - a rip that went from my crotch, down the seam of the left leg, to my kneecap. “Oh sweet Jebus,” I thought to myself. “I’m exposed!”

I rapidly backed up behind a Summer’s Eve floor display to hide while I thought of a plan. I could just leave my buggy and run to the car, but after twenty minutes of shopping, I was loathe to ditch my groceries. If I stayed, I ran the risk of exposing my nads to the female shoppers. I decided to stay. I untucked my white dress shirt, which covered most everything, but the lower half my leg remained exposed. I wasn’t sure which was more conspicuous - exposed red boxers or untucked dress shirt.
 
I walked quickly down each aisle, as if my life depended on it. Whenever I felt the burning heat of someone staring at my buttocks, I would back up against a display case until they passed by. I was feeling more relaxed by aisle ten, when I was approached by an older gentleman. “Excuse me, did you know your pants were split?” he asked. “No, but thanks for taking the time to notice,” I replied. I wasn’t sure whether to be thankful or fearful that he noticed. Regardless, I turned the aisle and ran for the cash register.
 

Woody Woodpecker and the Bagger

The blonde, spacey lady was at the cash register that day. A nondescript teen girl, and Jimmy, the mentally retarded bag boy, were bagging groceries. The cashier would be my first obstacle - she had checked me out before, and I knew she liked to gab.

Spacey: So, how was your summer?
Brad: Fine…and yours?
Spacey: Well, mine was one of discovery. Sometimes tragedy has a way of transforming one into something greater. It’s definitely been a period of spiritual growth for me…
Brad: Interesting… [translated: Oh {expletive}. Why won’t you shut the {expletive} up and keeping ringing up my {major deity} damned groceries?]

Spacey continued her diatribe. I was anxious to get out of the store, so I remained silent, but that didn’t stop her from having a one-sided conversation.
 
I loved Jimmy the bagger (in the platonic sense). He was always friendly and quick. However, this time, Jimmy was fascinated by the cartoon woodpecker on the label of my Woodpecker Cider, so he stopped bagging and started admiring the packaging. “There’s a woodpecker on your box!” he exclaimed with glee. “Sweet Jesus Jimmy! My pants are ripped and my testicles might be exposed. Forget the beer, chowderhead - my reputation’s at stake! Keep bagging!” I yelled. He looked at me with a keen awareness, and he started bagging with a ferocity that I had never seen in a bagger. The female bagger seemed unimpressed by my vulgarity and kept her normal bagging pace.
 

Epilogue

I made it out of Kroger - scarred but smarter. I no longer work in an office, so the stretch pants are not part of my normal attire. Working at home, I’m not even sure if I’m required to wear pants, but I do. Whenever I go to the grocery store, I always inspect the crotch integrity of the pants I’m wearing beforehand. Spacey is still working the register at Kroger; I avoid her at all costs, unless I’m in the mood for a story. Jimmy has left Kroger and now works on the Obama transition team.
 
[Brad’s note: If you enjoyed this article, please tell a friend about this blog. During this depression, increased readership is the only thing that will keep the main street blogger open for business. Otherwise, I’ll be forced to sell the website to some other Brad Brown. Together, we can’t make a difference.]

[Warning: Article may contain dated references to a style of music known as “heavy metal.” Reader discretion is advised.]

I was sixteen when I realized that I wanted to play guitar. I was watching Headbangers Ball in a Panama City hotel room when the Iron Maiden song “The Trooper” started playing on the television. What I saw sparked a yearning in me that I had never felt before (not counting Penthouse magazine). I was hooked - the spandex, the long hair, the chicks - I wanted it all. After returning home from spring break, I set a course for rock stardom.
 

Perfectly Good Guitar

My Mom (we’ll call her Myra) thought it best if I purchased an acoustic guitar and learned folk songs, like Camptown Ladies (”Camptown ladies sing this song, doo dar, doo dar…”). I thought it best if I skipped acoustic guitar and went straight for the electric, so I could play songs by Yngwie J. Malmsteen (Sweden’s answer to John Denver). Mom controlled the purse strings (literally), so she won the battle. I spent the next year playing my three chords on a Yamaha acoustic, dreaming of the day when I could start shredding. “Shredding,” for the musically clueless, involves playing scales really fast without any melody whatsoever. It’s what happens when you apply athletic prowess to guitar playing. In the late 80’s, it was all the rage.
 
I was a sneaky bastard. When Mom asked what I wanted for Christmas that year, I told her I wanted another acoustic guitar. “What’s wrong with the one you have?” she axed. “It really sucks,” I replied. So she gave me $100 and told me to buy whatever I wanted. What I wanted was a Sears and Roebuck electric guitar, black with red trim. What I really wanted was a Fender Stratocaster with scalloped fingerboard and custom Dimarzio pickups, but since money was tight, I opted for a Sears model instead. I placed the order and waited. Eventually, the guitar was delivered and I opened the package with the eagerness of a young man expecting an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot range model BB gun with a compass in the stock. Mom said, “That doesn’t look like an acoustic guitar.” I assured her it was, and ran with it into my room to begin practicing my hot licks. Eventually, I tricked her into buying me an amp as well. I had arrived.
 

You’re Fired

My friend Cliff and I stopped by his buddy’s house one Saturday. We walked into the garage where his friends were practicing. They were starting a band and they wanted to see if I would be a good fit. Each of them had been playing their respective instruments for just a couple of months. I had spent an entire year practicing for two to three hours a night in my bedroom; I had become the Yngwie Malmsteen of eastern Alabama. The other guitar player said, “Why don’t you play a little for us?” I started with Eruption by Van Halen, then did a little Judas Priest, and ended with a little Racer X. When I finished, their mouths were all agape with shock and awe. I thought it was a good sign - they all laughed, patted me on the back, and told me they’d see me next week.
 
Two days later, Cliff called to tell me that I was a bit too good, and that the other guitarist was worried that I’d make him look bad. I was fired from my first band even before the first practice! This brings up an important life lesson for the younger BradBrown.com reader - don’t ever let them see how good you are, in any endeavor, until you’re ensconced. Find out what the average is, and work to achieve that average. That way, you won’t scare the underachievers who control your fate.
 

Madison Square Garden

Every year at school, we had a talent show. I decided to enter. The plan was for me to play solo for two minutes. I walked on stage, plugged my Sears guitar into my Peavey Renown amp, and started playing. It’s amazing how you lose track of time when you really get into your music. Five minutes later, I looked down and saw a friend giving me the “cut” sign across his throat. I quickly wrapped it up, and later lost the contest to a girl with a dancing poodle. Afterward, I heard stories of the elderly ladies in the audience grimacing in horror as I played. I would have loved to have seen that. The good news is that my popularity soared among the young teenage girls, and I was worshiped like a major deity (at least that’s how I remember it).
 

Don’t Bring Me Down, Gruß

I had three career choices as a teen: rocker, English professor, and computer programmer. Myra had a heart-to-heart with me one day, and she told me that only computer programmers made money, and that I’d end up a loser if I chose to study rocking or English. Heartbroken, I gave up music (and English as a first language). These days, I still occasionally pick up the guitar, play my C/G/E chords to assure myself that I still have chops, and then I’ll put it back in the case and shove it back under the bed. I keep telling myself that when I retire from blogging, I’m going to go on tour of all the Starbucks in the area to recapture some of my former glory. So if you see a white guy at your local Starbucks singing “Afternoon Delight” on a Friday night, it’s probably me. Please tip generously.
 

Prequel

Someone (probably my sister Pascale Brown-Montague) gave me the book “The God of Rock” as a gift for my twelfth birthday. It was an encyclopedia of the anti-Christian tendencies of rock music acts. Here’s just a bit of what I learned:

• “Beware of anything that has to do with Led Zeppelin.” - this is an actual quote.
• Freddy Mercury of Queen was gay. I wasn’t sure what “gay” meant, but I assumed it must be bad.
• K.I.S.S. was an acronym for “Kids In Service to Satan.” I thought it meant “Knights in Satan’s Service.” Regardless, I was scared!
• The Eagles’ song “Life in the Fast Lane” is an expression of the utter folly and total despair of the rock music scene. Anton Lavey, high priest of the Church of Satan, appears on the cover of their album “Hotel California.”

After reading this book, I decided to burn all my records - the “Killing Me Softly” 45 by Roberta Flack, the “De Do Do Do” 45 single by The Police, and my Paul Stanley 8-track. However, I kept the “Greatest American Hero” single (too uplifting to burn). Before lighting the bonfire, I almost put my eye out when a fragment of the “De Do Do Do” single hit me in the eye as I broke it in half. After lighting the bonfire, I almost passed out and fell into it due to the sickening smoke from the burning records. However, almost losing my eye and breathing the fumes of Satan were worth it - I had removed all symbols of evil in my life. Eventually, that evil would return…
 

Are You Experienced?

Have you ever had your dreams crushed, particularly at a young age? If so, I’d love to hear about it. Please leave a comment sharing your experiences, and feel free to name those responsible for such heinous discouragement. Together, we can make a difference.

[Usually, I try to be humorous, but I’m so irritated that the American Congress is giving away $700 billion to Wall Street, I thought I’d write about that. Humor to resume next Wednesday.]

A certain fat cat, Henry Paulson, had made the acquaintance of a taxpayer mouse (BradBrown.com), and had said so much to him about the great love and friendship he felt for Brad, that at length Brad agreed that they should live and keep house together. “But we must make a provision for winter, or else we shall suffer from hunger,” said Henry, “and you, little mouse, cannot venture everywhere, or you will be caught in a trap some day.” The good advice was followed, and a pot of fat was purchased at Costco, but they did not know where to put it. At length, after much consideration, Henry said, “I know no place where it will be better stored up than in Congress, for no one dares take anything away from there. We will set it beneath the Pelosi altar, and not touch it until we are really in need of it.”
 
So the pot was placed in safety, but it was not long before Henry had a great yearning for it, and said to Brad: “I want to tell you something, little Brad; my cousin Bernanke has brought a little son into the world, and has asked me to be godfather; the baby is white with brown spots, and I am to hold him over the fountain at the christening. Let me go out today, and you look after the house by yourself.” “Yes, yes,” answered Brad, “by all means go, and if you get anything very good to eat, think of me. I should like a drop of sweet red christening wine myself.” All this, however, was untrue; Henry had no cousin, and had not been asked to be godfather. He went straight to Congress, sneaked to the pot of fat, began to lick at it, and licked the top of the fat off. Then he took a walk upon the roofs of the town, looked for photo-ops, and then stretched himself in the sun, and licked his lips whenever he thought of the pot of fat, and not until it was evening did he return home.
 
“Well, here you are again,” said Brad, “no doubt you have had a merry day.” “All went off well,’ answered the cat. “What name did they give the child?” “Top off!” said Henry quite coolly. “Top off!” cried Brad, “That is a very odd and uncommon name, is it a usual one in your family?” “What does that matter,” said Henry, “It is no worse than Crumb-stealer, as your godchildren are called.”
 
Before long Henry was seized by another fit of yearning. He said to Brad, “You must do me a favor, and once more manage the house for a day alone. I am again asked to be godfather, and as the child has a white ring round its neck, I cannot refuse.” The good mouse consented, and the cat crept behind the town walls to Congress, and devoured half the pot of fat. “Nothing ever seems so good as what one keeps to oneself,” he wrote in his Facebook journal via his tiny cat Blackberry, and was quite satisfied with his day’s work. When he went home, Brad inquired, “…and what was the child christened?” “Half-done,” answered the cat. “Half-done! What are you saying? I never heard the name in my life, I’ll wager anything it is not in Google search!”
 
Henry’s mouth soon began to water for some more licking. “All good things go in threes,” said he, “I am asked to stand godfather again. The child is quite black, only it has white paws, but with that exception, it has not a single white hair on its whole body. This only happens once every four years; you will let me go, won’t you?” “Top-off! Half-done!” answered Brad, “They are such odd names, they make me very suspicious.” “You sit at home,” said Henry, “watching Judge Judy, and are filled with fancies, that’s because you do not go out in the daytime.”

During Henry’s absence, Brad cleaned the house, and put it in order, while the greedy cat entirely emptied the pot of fat. “When everything is eaten up one has some peace,” he twittered to his friends, and well-filled and fat, he did not return home till night. Brad at once asked what name had been given to the third child. “It will not please you more than the others,” said the cat. “He is called All-gone.” “All-gone?” cried the mouse, “That is the most suspicious name of all! I have never seen it in print. All-gone, what can that mean?” and he shook his head, drank a thimble of Nyquil, and lay down to sleep.
 
From this time forth no one invited the cat to be godfather, but when the winter had come and there was no longer anything to be found outside, the mouse thought of their provision, and said, ‘Come, Henry, we will go to our pot of fat which we have stored up for ourselves - we shall enjoy that.” “Yes,” answered the cat, “you will enjoy it as much as you would enjoy sticking that dainty tongue of yours out of the window of the Hummer.” They set out on their way, but when they arrived, the pot of fat certainly was still in its place, but it was empty. “Mother F****r!” said Brad, “now I see what has happened, now it comes to light! You a true friend! You have devoured all when you were standing godfather. First top off, then half-done, then… “Will you hold your tongue,” yelled Henry, “one word more, and I will eat you too.” “All-gone” was already on the poor mouse’s lips; scarcely had he spoken it before Henry sprang on him, seized him, and swallowed him down. Verily, that is the way of America.
 
The End.
 
[Brad’s note: This is a modern adaptation of “Cat and Mouse in Partnership” by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (yes, loyal reader, I promise - the last Grimm tale for a while). If you enjoyed this, please call your state representatives and express your displeasure.]