It’s hard to envision how society will look in a post coronavirus world. Maybe everything will be fine, or maybe this disease will wipe us all out. All I know is that whatever happens, I won’t be wearing pants through any of it. I’m sorry, but I’ve been freeballing’ it for about a month straight now and I refuse to let my legs and crotch feel anything other than the gentle embrace of a cool spring breeze.
I can’t believe that it’s taken me this long to realize that pants were ruining my life. They’re just so limiting. I feel like my pelvis is trapped inside this oppressive cage of denim and ball sweat. They say that the great beasts of the wild are more likely to die in captivity than their smaller brethren because it breaks their spirit. If we truly love our nether regions, we should allow them to roam free.
It only took about a week of being quarantined for me to make the transition into a life without pants. The best part is that it hasn’t affected my normal life so far. My roommates don’t seem to mind, or they too terrified by how liberated I am to say anything. I can even get away with it during my work Zoom meetings as long as I don’t forget to turn off the camera before standing up again. There’s no way around; not wearing pants makes me feel like God.
And you know what? I’m glad that I’m no longer just another pants-wearing shill. Why should I have to sacrifice the comfort and freedom of my land down under just to appease the delicate sensibilities of “public decency laws” and “children.” The government shouldn’t have to force me to wear pants if I don’t want to. This is America, goddamnit!
So as we enter this brave new world, let me ask you, no, beg you, to join me in this beautiful, bare-assed revolution. Arm in arm, hand in hand, exposed asscheek in exposed asscheek, we will not go gently into that good night.
And don’t even get me started on sweatpants. They’re just another ploy by the Big Pants fatcats to fool us into thinking we’re free. Plus I get nasty swamp ass.