Stains Revisited

First off, for anyone who read my last post, about my stained pants, you’ll be happy to know that I was able to slip into the men’s room and clean them off. (I had to prepare two paper towels—one wet and one dry—go into one of the stalls, and then wipe as much of the stain off as I could.) The results weren’t perfect, but the stain was removed much better than I would have assumed. If someone were to look very closely, they probably still would have seen the stain, but, frankly, there’s not a person in the world who wants to look that closely at my posterior.

Those of you who read my blog religiously, day after day, will remember that this isn’t the first time I’ve spilled something on myself. (I wrote about it in a previous post, which was also titled “Coffee”. I should really put more thought into my titles.)

But here’s the weird part: Although I keep spilling things on myself, for some reason, I keep managing to clean the stains off, with nothing but water and paper towels. I guess all of my clothes are made out of some kind of space-age material, that repels stains.