Wrangler AssPosted: January 10, 2013
This morning I was thinking about back in my early jewelry store days, and the fun that I had with my co-workers. I had yet to take on a management position, so I was just one of the crew.
On slow days when the mall wasn’t busy, we would often have to find our own entertainment. Now, this was not a very hard thing to do given that our mall was not on the wealthy side of town. Our mall catered to the working class people who live on our side of town, and the small towns and communities to the south of us. It was not uncommon to have farmers come in and drop a bunch of cash, usually wadded up in the front pocket of their bib overalls. I learned quickly that these guys carried cash, lots of it, and that most of the other jewelry stores would end up being snobbish and not wait on them. I had many repeat customers, just based on the fact that I didn’t judge a book by its cover. Dirty? Fine. Pig shit on your shoes? Fine. As long as you had some Benjamins in your wallet ready to spend, the money was all the same to me.
The ladies that I worked with were hilarious. The people watching at this mall was awesome. There was all kinds of people to watch. It didn’t hurt that our boss may have encouraged us to occasionally drink on the job. Strawberry, rum slushy anyone?
One evening, I was working with two of my favorite girls, one of which was recently divorced. She was in her late twenties, and was out dating again. She was from a small town south of our city. At barely five foot tall, she always wore teetering heels, and was bouncing around telling us a story about going to a new country bar.
She talked about the cowboys, she talked about line dancing, she talked about bull riding….my eyes started to glaze over because I didn’t care about any of these things. At 19, I still had to wiggle my way past bouncers, hoping they “remembered me” and wouldn’t card me. I had never been to anything even close to a country bar. It would take about ten years before I ever actually would. Line dancing sounded like a form of punishment to my alternative dancing feet.
As Beth got further and further into her story, she is discussing a cowboy that she found particularly charming, and very loudly proclaimed, “There is NOTHING like a Wrangler ASS!”
Just as she said this, a gentleman had passed by the front door of our store. He seemed to straighten himself up a bit after overhearing Beth’s announcement.
Belt buckle the size of a dinner plate.
Tall, clean cowboy hat.
Shiny cowboy boots.
Fancy, plaid western shirt.
Most importantly those super sexy Wrangler jeans that Beth had just been going on about.
This “cowboy” was maybe 5 foot 5 inches, or sixty-six inches tall.
I am pretty sure that the waist size of his jeans was the same as that of his height.
There is nothing quite like a Wrangler ass.