Do I look as though I have thought through the beginnings of each and every working of time travel? Do my pants bear no resemblance to those worn by people of understandably less interest in the mating habits of walruses? Am I not master of my own spleen, and keenly aware of all it’s comings as well as goings?
But if all this is true, what place then does a yam have amongst the contents of my pants? And what is left for my German heritage to put atop it’s head in a vulgar display of power? Taste buds do not lie, especially when their fate is resigned to the aftermath of last nights cooking. Do you seek revenge on the armpits from whence you sprung?

All this and more, is not written in any preconceived fashion magazine, for reasons which will be further explained in paragraph 34 of your airplane manual. Diaper rash is a common occurrence among those who choose to wear them on their faces. So, let it be known that I have not this night, nor will I upon the arrival of all consecutive nights following this statement, wear any pants. Savor the pretense of valuable objectivity, for my nose will rein supreme!