Trouble Not The Trousers Be

Those are interesting trousers?

The Good Lady, at her own considerable risk of an eye-doinking, leaned down and tugged at the leg of my breeks.

Interesting as in sexy party interesting, babycheeks?

I struck a pose but hopefully not in the hot-fish-yoghurt-cat-attracting way that Madonna was famous for doing.

Hmm, I am not entirely sure on that one.

She stood up and rubbed at her chin before stepping back and eyeing me as if I were some big-eyed, muddy something that needed milking.
^{_{Call me cowish but perhaps I did?}}

I cocked a leg out to the side and did a small jig.

They have many pockets. Many many pockets. Would you like to try one?

I twitched a back pocket at her alluringly.

Um, you are right. They do have a lot of pockets. In fact, how many pockets do they have? Is that an actual pocket on your shin?

She frowned and again dived down into the danger zone to give the shin zip a little tug.

Oh no, that one is a fake.

She hauled herself back up before my cruel sethropod broke free for a spot of lunch.
^{_{I mean seriously, could they have come up with a salty beast that looked more penile?}}

Yes yes, woman. There is the odd fake pocket. I suppose, in that respect, my trousers are an allegory for life itself in which we all have to face the odd 'false pocket'... hmm?

I made air quotes because it had been a while since I had last done so and I felt that they were overdue for a return to the mainstream.

But only if used in the right way of course...

Jesus, sometimes you are full of shit.

The Good Lady chuckled and jabbed me good-naturedly in the belly.

Before she could blink, I had pulled my top up and exposed a sea of gently rippling abs.

Hey, I wasn't ready. Come on, do it again.

I jutted my belly at her menacingly.

Come on, poke them. Poke them hard!

I jumped up and down at her like a daft punk from the eighties trying to impress their peacock friends at a gig.

Put your belly away!

She swatted at my sea-abs causing them to swoosh back and forth like waves in a harbour.

Then she stopped and looked at me harder than she could punch.

Oh. Ooooooooooh... I know what's going on. Oh, baby. Come here. Come for a cuddle.

She held her arms out, her hands twitching on the ends of them like dying fish.

Huh, whatcha mean?

I pulled away suspiciously from those gaping limbs and skipped from foot to foot like an Irishman drunkenly readying to box his missus after his horses failed to win that day.

Oh come on, Daddy-Bear. It's ok you know. It's just another birthday.

She made that face that Veterinarians do when they pretend to you that your old cat still has many years of life left.

I stood stock-still as if listening for a Badger snuffling at the entrance of his sett on a brisk spring evening in the woods.
*^{_{(not a euphemism, although now I think on it, it would be a damn fine one.}}

How very dare you?

I snarled as if having eaten feta.

What? Oh, is it because it's the big Hawaii Five-O..? Come on, it's just a number!

The Good-Lady amused herself by doing a strange dance that looked as if she were mashing potatoes whilst singing that insanely catchy tune from god knows when.

I stood there and stared my most powerful stare of fury at her, willing her to melt into slobbery nonsense on the ground so that I could feed her to the foxes and not have to fess up to the Feds that I had furious superpowers and murdered those who displeased me.

She resolutely failed to melt.

I snorted. My powers were weak today.

She might not be so lucky tomorrow.