Man In The Iron Pants

You get all these blue polyester clothes when you graduate FA school, and none of them fit. So you take them to a place to get altered. It was all a blur, really, that two months of my life (I suppose I could go back and read what I wrote in September), but what I think happened is that, due to things like finding a place to sleep that wasn't a park taking precedence, I tossed my too-big uniforms at the first alterations place I found. It was less a place and more a guy. Bongo was his name, I think, and there was a lot of Mexican money tacked up all over the place, so he was probably more of a tailor than an alterator. And when I picked up one pair of pants, they were twice as big as when I left them, and so that should have been a clue to go home and try on all the other ones. Of course, I wouldn't be writing this if I had.
The point is that one of these pantses made it all this time without me putting them on to go to work. And, because all the other ones were at the cleaners, I was stuck with this one elusive pair which turned out to be about two inches too small waist-wise. So I ended up looking like the fourth Brother Gibb for a four day trip, not to mention having to learn to store my lower intestines behind my right lung.
I have since used that intestine trick at parties. Chicks dig it.