The five pound potato pants could no longer hold the twenty pound girth that cinched their way into the stretched denim. Winston was what some call pudgy. Being a man of thirty-eight years, it no longer bothered him that he still lived at home, or the fact that his mother still bought him pants. Which would explain the tight fit.
Winston was a man of conscience. A martyr to the cause of negligence and A.D.D. He often felt that he had been short changed in life, but happily accepted his defeat with pork rinds and his vast collection of Italian opera CDs.
His mother on the other hand, wanted her basement back and stealthy began sabotaging her poor Winston.
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