Tan lines ain’t all they’re cracked up to be

ROTW Contributor: Angela Durden

I was sixteen. Working in the cotton mill. Third shift. I had started out working the machine pictured here. But after a while, I was moved to the basement under the looms and became a cloth grader.  So, there I am, standing inside this giant machine with hundreds of feet of new cloth passing over my head and onto a light board where I marked defects on a sheet of paper according to the footage counter.

Feeling very efficient…and y’all know how I like my drug of choice: Efficiency. So I was flying high, man, when…BLAMMO. The machine stopped. Plain wouldn’t go. So, of course, I called The Fixer.

Now, this guy could fix anything, which is why he had that job as The Fixer. His pants hung low and his tighty whities showed just above his beltline. Then when he bent over…HELLO! And, it never failed — EVER — that when he had to bend over, his tan-lined Bright-White Fixer Crack was always pointed at moi. I could write a novel about that subject. Come to think of it, I am writing those novels. Only mine won’t be called 50 Shades of Plumbers’ Cracks. I mean, really?

 But I guess my main point of this whole thing is this: Everybody’s hollering about these young people running around with their pants hung low showing off their underwear and Fixer’s Cracks. I say stop hollering. Let’s make America strong again, y’all. Let’s end unemployment today. Let’s bring back the great cotton mills. Let’s give them the job they are interviewing for: Cotton Mill Fixer, which can include plumber by the by.