Occupy my trousers
“I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states… We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.”
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
All I can say is, great minds really do think alike. After reading MLK, Jr.’s comment about the “garment of destiny,” I thought, “Right!” Which is why I am starting a protest movement all my own.
It’s called: “Occupy My Trousers.”
Why occupy my trousers? For one thing, I figure I can easily get five or six protesters inside my trousers. Seven, if they bring small signs.
And why not? It’s about as good a place as any—and easily makes as much sense as occupying Wall Street, Main Street—or any other street.
My trousers and Wall Street actually have a lot in common. My trousers, like Wall Street, have deep pockets. Just like investors on Wall Street, my trousers can be taken to the cleaners. My trousers have lots of parts: loops, cuffs, creases, a fly, pleats, seams, a zipper. So does Wall Street. Sort of. Sometimes my trousers have buttons. So does Wall Street—a big one: the panic button. My trousers come in lots of colors—er, but not so much Wall Street.
I imagine I will need some rules if I have protesters occupy my trousers. Rule number one: No grilling or open flames. Rule number two: No overnight camping. Rule number three: No glass bottles or cans. Rule number four: Handbags will be searched. Rule number five: People occupying my trousers should be careful when using the “Human Microphone,” as my neighbors get very touchy about loud noises. Rules six through eight: No. Fricking. Fireworks. Rule number nine: No smoking products of any kind. Rule number ten: Use hand sanitizer frequently.
I would be very protective of the Occupy My Trousers protesters. For example, I would not allow my trousers to become a reality TV show about wives in pants, an afternoon talk show hosted by a jolly lesbian, or an eating contest of any kind. If the Office of Homeland Security tried to check the citizenship status of my protesters, I’d pretend I was Oskar Schindler and buy hundreds more protesters to occupy my trousers—three, four hundred more, including a rabbi.
Occupying my trousers might mean that protesters might have to give up other forms of occupation, such as occupying a Raven’s jersey, or occupying a space blanket, or occupying an empty cardboard Oodles of Noodles carton.
While my trousers are not metro, indie, or vegan, they are relaxed fit, poly-cotton blend wash’n’wear. My trousers, even though khaki-colored, are green.
My trousers eat local. My trousers will never touch fur. My trousers advocate the use of creative non-violence, sheltering in place, ducking and covering, running toward the fireball, and using weird hand signals when the cops are around.
My trousers make a statement. My trousers are confrontational. My trousers get loud with it. My trousers are politically correct. My trousers are non-negotiable. My trousers may walk to Washington.
My trousers are for income equality. My trousers are for full employment. My trousers feel your pain. My trousers have a clean, folded handkerchief in the left back pocket you may use and return.
When occupied, my trousers are a political Ground Zero. My trousers do not shoot wolves from helicopters, cheat on their spouse, sexually harass, or use the “n-word” in vacation home signage.
My trousers are electable; you can vote for my trousers. Occupy my trousers, today.
Baltimore satirist D.R. Belz is an award-winning writer who has published essays, poetry and fiction for more than 30 years in a variety of publications including The Baltimore Examiner, Baltimore Sun, Evening Sun, City Paper and Arbutus Patch. He is the author of White Asparagus (Apprentice House, 2010), a collected works. Reach him at email@example.com.
One thought on “Occupy my trousers”
Consider them occupied! Welcome back D.R. Belz. You’re long overdue.