Today I wore jeans to school. I haven’t worn jeans very much in my life. The last two times I wore jeans I was hanging out with my friends and I did it solely with the intention of easing into a comfort of wearing jeans. Before that I had wore my friend’s jeans to a stripclub because apparently my sweat pants wouldn’t fit the dress code. By the way, I find it extremely ironic that a stripclub would have a dress code. Before that the last time I had wore jeans was in the third grade. So as you can see I have not been acquainted much with jeans in my life. But no more! I bought some jeans and I intend to wear them. I may have made a mistake though. I bought the jeans used, but that’s not the mistake. The mistake is that I bought the jeans used from my gay friend. The idea of calling my purchase a mistake does not come from a homophobic perspective. You should all know by now that I don’t hate gay people. Hell, most of you are still under the impression that I am gay, which is incorrect, almost as much as it is inconvenient. The reason I called my purchase a mistake was because as we all know when you get something from another person and wear it you begin to act like the person you got the thing from. For example in one of the Treehouse of Horror episodes of the Simpsons Homer got a hair transplant from the criminal character Snake, and then Homer went on a killing spree. So I get that in that case the hair formed a chemical bond with Homer’s brain, whereas in my case the pants will be forming no such bond. But get this, the pants are very, very close to my penis, arguably the most important part of my sexuality. That’s why I wear underwear now. The underwear is to protect my penis from making contact with the jeans which could very well hold the key to turning me gay, which I would not prefer, no offense.
The biggest thing I’ve noticed about wearing jeans is that they don’t leave much room from my Vienna sausage and grapes (always nice to use food when talking about your private parts) I feel the grapes are about the right shape of my balls, but not the right size. Whereas a Vienna sausage is not the right shape, but is the right size. It’s shaped like celery by the way. You’ll laugh the next time you eat celery, or possibly just put the celery down in disgust.
As I walked into the community college today and then walked through the hallways to my History class I felt the eyes of all burned to my glorious ass. Okay, so that’s not entirely true. I didn’t exactly see anybody looking at my tushy, and nor did I sense it, but you can’t tell me with an ass like this strutting down the hall heads aren’t turning my way (I can tell you, no one cares about your ass) well not yet, but they’re still getting used to seeing quentin’s butt in jeans (don’t refer to yourself in third person) but it’s okay for me to talk to myself in text form? (well let’s be honest, that’s my choice, not yours). Anyway, my as is kickin’. It’s an ass that doesn’t quit. There is no quit in my ass. I have an ass with a never say die attitude. I’m totally kidding. My ass is fucking disgusting, and should be seen by no one. You know how girls have those pants that say ‘bootylicious’ on them? Well my pants say ‘caution: may cause nausea. Pregnant women should not ride.’