So yesterday was my 22nd birthday, or, as my dad pointed out, "yet another palindrome year". Me and the ladies, including a special appearance by Bill, went up to Reeds which was well equipped with a ridiculously amazing cover band with a ridiculously amazing singer chick and a ridiculously sexy keyboardist who got Claud and I all hot and bothered when he started grabbing at his belt and singing some baby making music. However, as much as I love my girls and gorgeous chocolate keyboardists and bars on my birthday, the highlight of the night, and quite possibly my entire upcoming year as a 22 year old, was seeing real life shpants.
Shpants are exactly what they sound like: a little combo of shorts and pants. Too long to be shorts, too short to be pants. When we got to the bar, Jil immediately pointed out a delicious little nugget of a man sitting behind us. He was just my type; tall, dark hair, facial hair, not too preppy but not too blahhh. He kind of had a rugged Matt Nathanson thing going on. We were very excited about our newly discovered Hot Kid, and made sure to blatantly look over at him as often as possible. That is until we spotted him walking back to his seat from the bathroom. From the waist up he was all lollipops and rainbows, but then, to our horror, below the equator he was wearing shpants. Big, flapping in the wind, JEAN shpants. Jil and I instantly turned toward each other and let out a horrified "OH MY GOD NO!" I'm pretty sure the guy heard us. But seriously, he shouldn't have been let out of the house like that. But at least he wasn't wearing shoodles. Or a coajack. Both of which can be explained by you-tubing "Arj & Poopy". Trust me on this one.
So there it is. A shpantsy birthday. I see it as good luck.
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