He asked for side buttoning yoga pants in bone flannel and they gave him ass pleats on oatmeal flannel instead.
After requesting that the pants be recut and delivering them to a New York hotel suite in an unmarked brown paper bag, his hand-wringing and pleas were met with obfuscation for a year, over which time he was tarred and feathered on social media and insinuations were made that he was a height-challenged Mongoloid.
Still, trusting the end product, he waited. Finally, the pants arrived and, like a child on Christmas Day, he eagerly tore open the paper wrapping with his house keys, but the fabric was all wrong. He immediately subjected it to a burn test and realized it contained polyester. What was billed as ancient thirst loomed by the Brothers Kitsune in the West of England turned out to be a Bollywood Special from West India.
But what could he do? He was pant-less. Resolved to turn the situation for the better with a bit of retail therapy, he strode into the Parisian house of Mèrcury, purveyors of leather goods and cravats with witty motifs of smiling Kit-Kat bars, dancing swastikas, and aliens mating. A single green billfold in cowhide would, he reasoned, "fit the bill" for this occasion. What he couldn't get in thirst that was ancient he would compensate for with new cash that was Asian.
"Sorry," the clerk jolted him out of his reverie. "I can't discuss that at this time," she said, cementing what would henceforth live on in the lexicon in the acronym we know as ICDTATT. He was nonplussed. This maison was a farce, a tower of rarity; it seemed to besmirch his purchasing power parity.
When a man cannot have side buttons, when a man cannot have bone flannel, when a man cannot even have a four thousand dollar wallet with his name inked in the corner by loving Parisian hands (by way of Belarus), he can do but one thing: turn to drink.
Long story short, he went to his favorite watering hole and somewhere in the proceedings, too inebriated to houdini the family jewels through the improperly placed side buttons (why, he cursed, had they used blazer buttons, of all things?), he sprinkled his "bespoke" hip-huggers, which by this time could honestly pass for Isaia MTM.
The pants were lost. So was his ego. But no one stands between a man and cold, hard cash. The battle was Pyrrhic, but it was his battle.
Before closing time, he squeaks through the sliding doors of Daffy's New York, buys the first pair of Incotex he can find. Goes home, snips off the labels, strings them onto the soiled bespoke pantaloons with a bit of fishing wire. Presto, change-o: merchandise that's priced to move! He lists it on ebay:
NWT INCOTEX ANCIENT THIRST 28 EUR L$$K!!
Buy It Now: $79.
An offer comes in: $25 shipped to Ulaanbataar.
Implacable, he shoots back with a counter-bid: $35.
The counter-offer: $30 to U.bataar, plus I'll offer you a J.Crew gift code.
Bingo. Accept offer, bitches.
Time to post on SF about how some sucker just bought my piss-stained pants and gave me a coupon for it.
To be continued
Postscript: book offers from publishers accepted at firstname.lastname@example.org