The relentless sniggering behind my back is one thing, but the fact that I am being persecuted for my cultural heritage is outright despicable. I can’t even venture out to the corner shop without someone throwing stones at me, or people telling me that I’m “offensive”. Occasionally the police are called, who then insist on draping towels around my waist and escorting me home in the name of public decency. All of this is because people can’t accept my buttless leather chaps.
I will not stand for this any longer. If you have a problem with the way I dress, then you are disrespecting my cultural heritage, pure and simple. I come from a long line of buttless chap wearers. My great, great, great, grandfather Wilfred used to rustle up some cattle in a pair of the ol’ breezy’s. Before that, my distant buttless uncle Peter was part of the French resistance, and you’d never see him trying to protect his derriere from the bayonets and bullets of his enemies with a layer of fabric. These trousers are an important part of my lineage and I wouldn’t want to disrespect the struggles of my ancestors by applying cloth to buttock.
The list of public places I am banned from gets longer by the day. I am no longer welcome at the library, the school, church, my local, my non-local, the supermarket, laser quest, the arcade, Claridge’s , the nuclear power plant, the old watering hole, my neighbours pools, and outside. Even the postman doesn’t knock on the door any more. He just leaves my packages with the neighbours, even when I’m at home. This is pure discrimination.
|The "censored" version that I have to wear to my kid's school plays.|
I don’t understand why some people are allowed to wear unusual clothing and I’m not. You don’t see me walking around slapping those weird Jewish hats off of people’s heads or tearing off people's burkhas. They are allowed to wear them due to religious reasons. Well what if I were to say that I worshipped buttless trousers? I don’t, because that would be ridiculous, but I could if I wanted to and you should be happy for me.
So here I stand, proud, sunburnt and nettled; turning the other cheek every time some drunken hen party slaps my arse and whistles like a filthy steam engine. All I ask is that people consider a little cultural sensitivity and respect my lifestyle choices. That, and please stop making me sit on towels when I come round for tea. Thanks in advance!