Tragicomedy, Anyone?

I recently found an interesting website which on which people post all kind of stuff, such as political commentary and humorous experiences. This reminded me of a personal experience of mine that I thought was pretty funny, so I am posting it here (and there, hopefully I'll get a decent rating from viewers) for your enjoyment.

I used to work in a large office building that housed various space-program-related endeavors (none of which figure in this tale, but it was pretty cool nevertheless). One evening I was wrapping up my activities for the day, preparing to go home. All my coworkers had already left, so I was alone in the office we shared. I squatted down to put something away in the bottom drawer of my desk and heard the dreaded "rip." The seat of my nice slacks had split wide open, from crotch to waist. Damn.
Since I was alone in the office, I had the option of removing my pants to inspect the damage, which I did. It was pretty bad. I knew that there was no way I could get out of the building without displaying my ass on the way, so I looked around for some way to patch the tear. Office supplies were all I had available, and so it was that I chose my handy stapler. I turned the pants inside-out,aligned the edges of the tear as best I could and started stapling. When I inspected my handiwork, I was not impressed. The new seam was distorted and puckered, like Quasimodo eating a lemon. It would, however, have to do.
As I started to don my pants again, a disturbing thought occurred to me. Staples have sharp points, seat of pants are full of staples, seat of pants cover my butt, must sit on butt to drive my car, butt must press against staples, staples have sharp points. Visions of multiple bloody puncture wounds running up my ass crack came to mind. Not good. What I needed was some way to protect myself from certain discomfort.
My eyes fell on the solution - a roll of masking tape. I could lay a strip of tape over the staples and create an anti-staple-point barrier of protection. Brilliant! Soon I was done, and put on my pants. A little snug, perhaps (and not uniformly so), but it should get me out of the building. I left my shirttail out in the back to help conceal the jagged repair, and proceeded to the door.
The elevator was empty. The ground floor was nearly deserted, and I timed my merge into the outbound traffic to put the most distance between me and the people behind my behind. A few people passed me going the other way, and I did my best to ignore them. I still couldn't help noticing them staring at my pants, which was strange because they couldn't yet see my butt. No matter, I strode quickly out the door and made my way to my car.
I sat gingerly in the seat of my car, still not entirely confident in my anti-staple-point barrier. It worked! I settled in for the commute home. As I drove to the parking garage exit, I shifted around to get more comfortable and made a terrible discovery.
It should be noted that my car had a manual transmission, and so driving it meant both feet stayed busy. In the process of working the clutch, brake, and accelerator pedals I became acquainted with the unfortunate nature of masking tape adhesive. It seems that it wasn't quite sticky enough to adher to pants material, but was more that sticky enough to grab and hold butt-crack hair.
Every time I moved either foot, I could feel a butt-crack hair rip out. I drove home at the height of rush-hour, constantly starting and stopping, constantly working the clutch and brake, twitching as each hair departed my ass. It looked like my ass had epilepsy. I couldn't believe how much hair I had started with on my ass, and when I thought that surely it must be entire devoid of follicles, a new batch would rip out.
An eternity later, reached my apartment complex. I gingerly exited the vehicle and proceeded up the sidewalk to the building in which I lived. I thought that driving was bad, but walking was worse. All of the last holdout hairs ripped out of my ass with each step, making it difficult to walk in a straight line. I passed several neighbors along the way, all of whom stared at my pants, but I didn't care. All I could focus on was getting to my apartment and shedding these trousers of pain.
I whimpered when I reached the stairs to my second-floor apartment, dreading the climb. And rightfully so, because it was the most agonizing stretch of my entire hellish journey home.

Did you know that, when you try to climb stairs without moving your legs at the hips, you look pretty stupid and you don't progress very quickly? Try it sometime.

Finally, I closed the door behind me. I was free to shed the torturous slacks from hell. As I reached down to undo my pants, I discovered why everyone had stared at my pants on the way out of the building and up the sidewalk. My fly was open. And not just unzipped, but wide open, tugged agape by the crude patch job. Now I understood why my mother had always insisted that I wear clean underwear. If only I had listened.