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“Wrangler Jeans, Pt. 2 (I Keep Falling in and out of Love with Wrangler Jeans)”

And so the proletariat American clothing saga continues.

It’s funny: just as little as a few months ago, when footballs were being thrown by sun-kissed creeks, leaves were falling and those baggy jeans went just perfect with a light flannel on those crisp days, Wrangler Jeans seemed to be on top of the world.

I mean, they were the one. They were still the one you run to, the one that you belong to, after all these years of seeing the blue jean trends aesthetically materialize as a sort of anatomical spectrum of extreme denim hematoma to crippling cotton crotch-crowding and back.

The Wrangler Jeans marketing scheme flies high. It’s like a 20th century German zeppelin, almost impossible to spot and very hard to shoot down, if only for its incredible distance away from its enemy, or from the nucleus of respectable American culture, if you will. Trendy new stores might sprout up and make a brief splash, but who was filling the shelves at the Targets, the Wal-Marts, the Meijers of the world, for those of us who can with exact marginality afford a pair of jeans that aren’t from Goodwill? In a way, Wrangler is like Big Boy – it never really left us.

In fact, Wrangler’s stock was at what was arguably an all-time high riding into the proud year of 2020, with the thought of donning a pair to middle school in the late-’90s about as comforting as a quick jaunt across the ocean in a Valu-Jet. Their image, their marketing scheme, and their overall commercial infrastructure had morphed into a veritable armored dune-buggy with rims, stalking the world and exacting its affordable, practical, painfully average will on the American populace at large. I myself even thought they could not be stopped, spotted a pair in Goodwill and to be honest felt a swell in my heart, like meeting a long lost love at the airport.

And then I saw the butt, these two laced, gold “W”’s gracing each cheek, respectively. I shriveled up my face as if beholding a pizza I left in the oven overnight. Those jeans seemed to say, “For a straight guy, I sure have one juicy a**.” With stony visage, I continued perusing the used jeans, as far mentally up the creek as the next guy with $14 in his pocket and holes in his pants.

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