The little buggers met by the number 6 black pumps and schemed. The closet door was ajar. They snickered at that, to a one, getting ready to indulge in their night time fun. The tribe in Susan’s apartment, die Kaloriens, took no prisoners. They laughed whole hardheartedly when she tossed out all her carbohydrates and bought cases of yogurt.
KalorienReicher, beloved leader, worth his weight in fat globules, tooted. He tooted his horn,carefully for Susan was a fairly light sleeper, hoisted his petard, and signaled the nightly march into Susan’s Repository of Ill Purchased Garments. They were, to a one (except for the Donna Karan A Line black skirt that Bjorrgggggg the Snap liked).
There were the scanties, there the lace thingies, there the Leather-How-Does-She-Get-Into-Those. They passed them all: tonight, it was the Jeans.
Yes, you may scream a bit, you may squirm at the idea of jean that ill fit, that sagged where sagging was not supposed to happen and where muffin tops perched precariously atop the top band of denim. Denim Delights, young Phlabert would often be heard saying. Denin Delights. The others would beat him near unconscious to stop him from drooling most nights. Tonight was different.
The Kalorienreichste, nimble in craft, moved to release the side stitching of pair after pair of Levis and Lees. The Kalorienmenge with their sharp slicing scythes lopped off material here and there, letting it fall to be collected later (No Fabric Left Behind was the motto of die Kaloriens!). Finally, the sewing back, snug snug snuggest, was left to the masters, the Kalorienbombe.
As they were leaving, whistling their happy tune of deconstruction, young Phlabert was overcome with joy. He ran off with a piece of a Joanie Midrise Barely Bootcut Jean (and wasn’t seen for four and a half days). KalorienReicher, beloved leader, worth his weight in fat globules, just shook his head and then smiled.
The morning would come soon: casual dress Friday. Susan would be late to work.