What pants now?

What pants now?

No shoes, no shirt, no service. Now they expect us to wear PANTS? What is this, RUSSIA? I come from a long line of no-pants people. Since my great-granddad at D-Day, we were

proud of our vow of trouserlessness. My dad endured ridicule, beatings and jailtime in the 60s so that I could stand here today proudly, and

say "Make Love, Not Pants." Peace, baby...and here's a flower. Not everyone believes in going pants-free, however. There are those straight-laced types who berate us, claiming that

pants-free leads to free-love. So what if it does? So she and I walked down the boardwalk, continuing to hand out flowers. When we came to a

-bombs like sailors on a three-day bender. The griffin and mock turtle were in fact sailors who had been transformed by an allergic reaction to toxins in the Red Lobster's oyster

crackers which got stuck in the sailors' throats and they were coughing like shotguns, blasting a spray of crusty carb shards all over the bar. Some army guys in the joint had enou

gh of the sloppy seamen all over the bar. They were disgusted by the sticky, smelly mess. They decided to beat it...just beat it...beat it...get the hell out of Dodge.

Leaving behind such a mess at the bar will forever plague their minds. If only they had cleaned up after themselves they wouldn't be feeling so much guilt.