Hulk in Pants

Its Halloween, and I am celebrating the one year aniversary of having lost myself to the girl i should have grown old with. Isnt it funny to hear other people say cathartic shit like that, pretending they know what love and hurt and jealousy are. Things are different this year, in fact everything is different. She sits on my mind as an old mistake, my home is a brick fortress with the hounds of god at the doors, my job is a delight of chemicals and creativity, my sex life as dry as the Sahara, my local language profficency nill, and the rest of the world just wrapped up in those preoccupations. The only consistent field is of course the bills and radical debt that it took to catapult me half way across the united states and into this derivation land concieved of a wandering bastard of Mexico and some lost band of Aztec mystics.

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The funny part about horror movies is that when a man turns into a monster, or some elisive transformation renders an akward 130 pound lout into a sneering beast, the clothing rips off of him with such ferocity. You see close ups of buttons popping and shirt sleeves being wrent by the horrible transmuting flesh and muscle.

Strangly though, the byproduct is always some rippling green monstrosity in Capris.

Was this fashoon trend inspired by the hulk himself, or countless wolfman concepts? Or instead, has the practical intergrity and inherent indestructability of Capris leggings been shamelessly advertised since even before the ilk of Mary Shelly.

Some would argue with me that depending on the era, transformation garb has also included various sub-species of Shorts and Jams. Let us not forget though that they are still well within the fatherly genus of incomplete leg coverings, so rests my point.

This does nothing but force me into wondering why for once cannot Frankensteins abbomination be complete with a a frankensteinian cock, and cater not the the censors who would have you believe that the mystical world of the supernatural is too uptight to show some werewolf vaginas or cursed mummy tits.

Dont tell me it would be another million or so in special effects just to give the Hulk some big green jello balls. Its fot the love of believability anyhow. Who can go to a film and be drawn into the storyline when they see a perfectly good fast motion steroid engorgement go sour with the tacky irony of granny bloomers being the cape of their new super hero.

Now for the record, I dont want to see King Kong bat planes out of the sky with his ding-dong, or for that matter see another bare actors ass on my screen (Ill leave that love for my mother and Patrick Swazey), but please people, I for one know that with balls like the Hulks, he is bound to skip the Capris and instead battle for the fate of the earth in some nice loose fitting sweat pants...