The Commish Online                                                                                
Size Issues
July 30, 2007

Armageddon has arrived in the summer of 2007.  It has arrived in the form of shorts.  That’s right, shorts.  I’m not a teenager, I try my best not to let the world see my boxers (and the world thanks me), and my tastes are fairly mainstream.  Somehow, despite my perceived normalcy, I managed to wear a pair shorts this summer that were longer that a pair of pants I own.

It’s one oxymoron I thought was left solely for the pimple-faced generation.  The long shorts that crossed the “Dockers” border are a pair of blue cargo shorts from Abercrombie & Fitch.  Besides ending their fun almost at mid shin, they weigh more than my third child.  Sometimes I’ll hear change, keys, or small animals rustling about in one of the 19 pockets and it takes me days to find them.

Because my wife makes sure I don’t leave the house looking like 1997 (what’s wrong with full pleated khakis, a blousy shirt, and a barn jacket?), she often steps up my wardrobe.  Where do you think I got the 42lb. shorts from?  She also bought me a pair of summer shortpants – don’t you dare call them “capris” – they’re manpants!  While I can’t quite pull the trigger on buttoning the legs up just below my knee (we don’t do too many moonlit walks on the beach in the Midwestern suburbs), the option to do so officially makes them shorter than my oxymoronic shorts.

This may not seem like a big deal to you, but trust me; the fate of the universe hangs in the balance.  If we allow this trend to continue, size classifications for everything will be dangerously askew.  Some women’s dresses are getting shorter than skirts, but they still must be called dresses or these women would be arrested for walking around town with nothing on but a shirt.  Arrested by a female cop, of course.  Or a gay man.

Shots in bars are becoming larger than the drinks themselves and all hell is breaking loose.  Throw down a 4-ounce monster shot of straight tequila, back it up with another, and you’re one of the gang.  Order a scotch on the rocks, suck it down two minutes later, and you’re an alcoholic.  Doesn’t make sense.

I’m not usually an advocate for political intervention, but America’s failure to adhere to size limits is spiraling out of control.  Congress needs to forget about steroids in baseball, stop worrying about illegal aliens near the borders, and put aside any global warming issues.  Shorts are being sold that prevent ankle tattoos from being seen, and it must stop.  The law would be a simple one:  nothing shorter than a John Stockton Utah Jazz pair, and nothing longer than a Michael Jordan pair in his prime.  Stick to that simple rule and Congress will have one less thing to vote on this summer – giving them more time for monster tequila shots.