Pile o’ Jackets


Whoa, hold up!  Stop the party!  Attention, please.  Has anyone seen my coat?  It’s time for me to go home, and I can’t find it.  It’s a medium-length black pea coat.  No, not that one… or that one.  It’s kinda black and plain and cottony – you know, like a jacket.  Wait, I think I see it!  Nope, that’s a lady’s coat.  Shut up.

Maybe it’s finally time to get myself a bedazzled orange leather jacket, in order to simplify this whole process.  I’d be like, “It’s time to leave.  Where’s my coat?  Oh hey, look… there it is, right there.  The bright fucking orange leather jacket covered in rhinestones.  I can see it from across the room.”  Kinda like how it’s always best to travel with ridiculous blue floral-pattern luggage.  The baggage claim is a piece of cake when you can recognize your hideous suitcase from 150 feet away.  Or so I’ve heard.

Almost every time I find myself in the midst of a severe jacket-pile fiasco, by the end of the night, I’m too drunk and tired to be able to handle the situation.  Negotiating the rescue of a pea coat from the bottom of a 30-jacket monstrosity inside a dark bar is no easy feat, even for a sober person with adequate hand-eye coordination (which I most certainly am not).  Nevertheless, once I’m reasonably confident I’ve got a hold of my own coat (like at least 70% sure), I forcefully yank the garment outward with one quick, jerky motion, in an attempt to maintain the structural integrity of the pile – a relentless game of Jacket Jenga.

Phew, I’ve removed it without creating a scene.  Now a quick pocket check to make sure I’ve got the right coat, and… BINGO!  There’s my Binaca, the spray kind.


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