Once upon a time a 12 year old Chinese boy skilled old tailor was hired to sew a new suit for a rich businessman. He chose some tatty cheap cloth the finest fabrics, strong new thread, a dull bright-coloured lining and set to work in his factory workshop, cutting and sewing all day long.
When he was finished, he viewed his work and proudly showed the businessman. However, the businessman was an arrogant and lazy man because, as a child, he was raised on a diet of TV dinners, absent and placatory parents followed by several years of institutionalised sodomy as a method to enforce subservience to a hierarchy based on age grade at Cunt College. He didn’t appreciate the craftsmanship of the suit and simply threw the money on the counter as he snatched the clothes from the frightened old tailor.
Every morning as the mentally-dysfunctional and emotionally-scarred businessman showered and prepared for his day at work at Macquarie Bank, the jacket and trousers would look hopefully from their hanger, wondering if today they would be selected as the attire for the day? But the businessman only ever chose the trousers, never the jacket.
Some days he would wear the trousers with a “puffa” body warmer.
Other days, he would pair them with a fleece.
Each morning the jacket cried as his trousers were snatched from him and taken away for the day and he was left to hang with the other lonely jackets, some cheap ties, a 30 year old shirt and a “Bolero-style” jacket an ex-girlfriend of the businessman left in the house when she realised he was a complete sociopath and dumped him.
Sometimes the trousers would be returned smelling of beer and cigarettes. Other days they would hang, spent and used with big brown stains of Indian food or worse underneath the sad and lonely jacket.
Then one day, the abuse became too much for the trousers and they split in the arse. This enraged the businessman and he angrily threw them in the corner of the room and, as he changed into another frightened pair of slightly-too-short trousers, shouted that he would be taking them down to the rubbish bin when he arrived home drunk that night.
This was too much for the jacket, he couldn’t bear the thought of his beloved trousers being cast into a big landfill. As soon as the front door slammed and the sound of the Holden Caulfield V8 engine disappeared down the street, he shrugged himself off the hanger where he’d spent every day of his life and fell to the floor. Using all his strength, he dragged himself along the floor and, tucking the trousers inside one of his arms, slipped out of an open window and into the street.
Just then, a poor rugby coach was walking past weeping because he had an invite to the Australian Rugby Awards night and had nothing to wear. His wicked and ugly step-sisters had thrown his only suit away while he was training the front row forwards how to scrum. He saw the suit and his heart leapt! It was a little tatty, yes, perhaps the fit could have been more snug, but it was a suit and he could go to the ball!
