Monthly Archives: April 2015

The pants of shame, or POS for short

So, I went a little overboard on an old writing prompt at Kristen Lambs blog:

It was pretty fun to free-flow some ideas for a truly, TRULY ugly pair of pants. Check the link out. Just do it. The true history of the POS is laid out below, I researched for damn near 45 seconds to find the truth…

The famed monk Piehole the Pie-us was given the duty, upon swearing his oath to the Order of the Loom, of creating an undergarment for the most penitent of the order. It was to be a garment most itchy; indeed, this pair of drawers was to be so ghastly as to make one’s very eyeballs itch upon even the most accidental viewing. While the appearance was one of snug fit, the effect was one of itchy-wool-atonement to the gonadal region of the monk who had taken it upon himself to repent.
The effect of creating such a dastardly attritional garment was not immediately realized. Being made of the most course of available wool, the POS could not be washed between the individual monk’s rites of penitence. As the years passed, they became fetid, but this in and of itself was of little consequence as the monks themselves rarely bathed and never ventured into the world outside the Monastery of Fleece. It was not until the first crotch crickets took up residence (the first reference to said crotch crickets in the POS being listed in The Manifesto of Monk Eugene the Fusser in 1466, just months before he burned down the entire abbey in an attempt to destroy the POS) that the destructive power of the garment became apparent. Having miraculously survived the fire (they were being worn by Monk Pontious Pissalot as atonement for an unnamed but assuredly horrid misdeed when he swam the moat of stale beer to escape the flames) they were later, in 1478, the inspiration for many of the actions of the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition (later simply referred to as the Spanish Inquisition). The Pants of Shame were used exclusively for the most heretic of those sentenced by the inquisition until the early 1800’s, when the pants of shame were stolen by a young Bonapartist who decided that they were “fashionable.” (as a side note, the POS were considered decidedly “unfashionable” for their entire history, save for the Bonapartists and a period of approximately 4 years in the United States from 1969-1972) When the body of this poor soul washed up on the shores of Elba after his death from anemia, the stage was set for the unlikely return of Napoleon from his exile. The memoirs of his assistant, Pierre le Cochon, suggests that the loss at Waterloo could be partially attributed to Napoleon’s “inability to stop scratching his nether-quarters”.
Although many have chosen death rather than have to wear the Pants of Shame, It is interesting to note that Ozzie Osbourne wore them for the entirety of his “Paranoid” tour with Black Sabbath, seemingly without incident. They were stolen by a roadie while Ozzie was passed out in the back of his tour bus, which led to Ozzie leaving Black Sabbath and going on to a solo career. That same roadie was bludgeoned to death with a tire iron by a hobo just months later. The Pants of Shame have been mentioned only in urban folklore, but not actually seen by reliable sources, since 1975.

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Ten Ways to Tighten Your Writing & Hook the Reader

Linking back to a pretty good blog on writing. Since I link repeatedly to Chuck Wendig’s pretty little playhouse I thought I’d share this one as well.

Ten Ways to Tighten Your Writing & Hook the Reader.

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So, I spend a little bit of time over at Chuck Wendig’s sandbox, Several of my flash fiction pieces here were prompted by He Who is Ravaged by Trouser Badgers. Below is yet another of those works, prompted by the photo he posted on his website:


“Goddamn it, they misspelled the sign,” Pierce said as he slowed his Prius down and turned into the parking lot. “Half the people coming to this thing won’t be able to figure it out.”

“They left our names off,” Willie replied. “And is that a fucking Tastee Freeze next door? Holy shit, man.” His tone was disappointed, but not really surprised. Tired would be a good way to describe it. “Guess we shouldn’t be too surprised. ‘Boneron, starring Pierce Highman, Willie Diddle and Fonda Peters’ really wouldn’t look good next to a pizza sign and a Tastee Freeze.”

“If it didn’t suit them, why did they agree to have the event in the first place?” Pierce slammed the shifter into park and turned the key. “I mean, hell, what are we doing? I’ve been trying to build a career in this industry and make it respectable for twenty years. I’m forty fucking years old, and here I am at another movie unveiling in a pisspot town that doesn’t even want me.”

“Half the men in the country want to be us, Pierce. We have money, we’re famous, and we fuck the hottest chicks on the planet for cash. Just calm down for a minute, I’m sick of some of the bullshit too. But, c’mon, it’s just a fucked up sign. You’re Pierce Highman. This is supposed to be triumphant, man! We got every big name in the industry to work in this film. Peter Enya even came out of retirement to do a scene. Take a breath, dude.”

Pierce knew Willie was right, of course. The people running this theater were just like so many of the others. They wanted the money he brought but they didn’t want their neighbors to know what was going on. He laughed, thinking about the old couple that owned this place going to church on Sunday and being questioned about “Boneron.” Still, he knew most of the guests for this evening’s unveiling. Most of them would drive down this road 50 times, with the address easily visible, and never make the connection with “Oberon.” He took the vial out of his pocket and snorted a couple of spoons of blow, handed it to Willie and got out of the car. He inhaled deeply, savoring the drip in the back of his throat. “There’s no instruction book for running an adult studio, Willie.”

“Nope,” Willie said, slamming the door, “It ain’t all fuckin’, that’s for sure. Maybe WE ought to write that instruction book, you know? Not too many people been in the business as long as us.”

“Man, the last thing in the world I want to do is be a writer. Shit, even I got standards, man.”

He walked across the parking lot, looking at the letters and trying to decide what to do while Willie leaned against the Prius and lit a Camel, exhaling deeply into the afternoon sunshine.

Pierce reached up and moved the “B”. “Oberon” became “Bo_eron”. He stepped back, admiring his work. It wasn’t perfect, but the guests would be able to figure it out, and the theater owners could go to church on Sunday with their neighbors. “Looks good with the pizza sign, too,” yelled Willie, still smiling, from beside the car. Satisfied, they went inside to prepare for the night’s activities.

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On Reading

I’ve done less writing than usual of late, and concentrated on reading more. I’ll be honest, reading was becoming a bit of a chore. My stepdaughter bought the entire “Game of Thrones” series, and I’ve been slogging through it. Turns out, WHAT I was reading was the chore, not HOW MUCH I was reading. I finished one of the “Thrones” books last night and picked up “Lolita” by Nabakov. Let it suffice to say that I’m in love with reading all over again.


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