Wizard on Whizzin Words Only Edition: 5 Reasons I Hate Sweatpants

The Story Of Why I Hate Sweatpants

Today I’d like to talk about sweatpants. Many people have a negative opinion of them. That’s fine.

What Are Sweatpants?

Wikipedia has this to say about the subject:

“Sweatpants are a casual variety of soft trousers intended for comfort or athletic purposes, although they are now worn in many different situations. Because of their comfort and fashionable varieties, they have become one of the most commonly worn items of clothing. In Britain, Australia, New Zealand, and South Africa they are known as tracksuit bottoms, jogging bottoms (or joggers), fat pants, track pants, trackies or tracky bottoms’. In Australia, they are also commonly known as tracky daks.[1]“

It should be noted that the article is in danger of being removed on account of there are no sources to back up the claims that “Sweatpants are a casual variety of soft trouser intended for comfort or athletic purposes.”

My Reason for Hating Sweatpants

There are many reasons for hating sweatpants. I have my own special reasons. Once upon a time there was nothing I could find wrong with sweatpants. Then came that one day that changed my life, and consequently my opinion of sweatpants. Forever.

I remember that day like it was earlier this week. I was old enough to go outside and young enough to appreciate the beauty of being old enough to go outside. My friend had stopped by to show me his new bike, and we went for a ride.

A ride that changed my life forever.

Somewhere down the street we hit a bump and, I’m sorry. I can’t go on writing this story like it doesn’t end with my penis being crushed by the rear brake pads of the bike.

I wanted to tell a whimsical tale of childish fancy but I can’t sit here trying to add a heartwarming narrative to a tale that involves blasting a scab off of my bruised and bloodied Richard Portal every time I had to use the bathroom back in December of ’85.

2.jpg
                 Dec ’85                           Jan ’86

So that’s why I hate sweatpants but it wasn’t all bad. I did learn some powerful lessons from the ordeal; five lessons, to be exact.

Five Things I Learned From Having My Penis Almost Ripped Off By A Bicycle

 1. Pain improves memory function.

The day I got my penis mangled by a bicycle is etched into my brain pretty deeply. There’s no escaping the memories. I can remember the episode of Spencer for Hire I watched as I debated crawling up the steps and hoping I could find the bathroom through my haze of tears before I passed out from the pain. I can remember the ceramic penis shaped novelty sperm bank my mother purchased at Spencer Gifts for a party that evening. I remember being glad my dick wasn’t made out of ceramic. I can remember just about everything that happened from the time the bike hit the curb until the next day.

I can’t see too much of a practical use for super charging the memory by inducing horrible pain, but I guess it depends.

2. Most medical problems can be solved with ointments and moxie.

When my wang was crushed and mangled by a bicycle, I didn’t go to no doctor and neither should you.

There’s nothing science can do for most injuries except waste your time, so when you have one of those injuries just skip the hospital and go straight to sucking it up and walking it off.

Many people looked at my wang that day, and not one of them was a doctor. Not one of them needed to be a doctor to tell me how sorry they were that they insisted on seeing it. I received a roll of gauze and a tube of ointment and a book about John Wayne. That was enough back then.

 3. The gift of crippling pain is humility.

This one sort of explains itself. When a person goes through a horrible, painful ordeal it can make them cold and impartial to the suffering of others, like when a member of the women’s dart team declares that you don’t know pain until you give birth. Which is untrue.

A more true statement would be “You don’t know what giving birth is like until you give birth to a child.” Now that is a true statement but is useless for anything beyond falsely acquiring and fostering a worldview where you are something other than a drunken, unhappy martyr.

The other way to look at pain is to remember that there were times when you too were embarrassed and crippled by pain, and act accordingly. It’s not that hard.

4. Freedom of movement comes at the cost of stopping power.

I think I learned this more from Dungeons and Dragons than I did from my incident. Say you have an Elf and are playing basic rule set (because you are 6). That means that you can cast magic spells and use swords and ALSO a bow and arrow. So when you’re six and playing Dungeons and Dragons, you’re an elf like all the time.

Now, wielding a sword involves close combat where your character might get hurt, so you want to wear some metal armor, but that’s going to bite you in the ass when it comes to using your bow (and arrows) and the magic.

From an early age, I was aware that one can be safe and slow or quick and useful but not both. This is why Elven chain mail is such a sought after item. It gives the protection of chain mail but WITHOUT the dexterity penalty when casting spells or using range weapons. Non-magical studded leather is statistically the next best choice, but people look at you funny when you mention it.

5. A Secret Lesson That Was Just For Me.

I can’t cheapen it by sharing it.

While I can’t recommend genital mutilation as a path to inner illumination, I can recommend that if that does happen to you it’s best to try and find five lessons you learned from it instead of joining the women’s dart league.

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