Dear Mr. Hilfiger,
Earlier this year (2015), I bought some of your jeans. They barely made it to November before falling to pieces. Is this to be expected? Please, allow me to briefly clarify the extent of the devastation:
The entire crotch has disintegrated. It is no exaggeration to say I could fit a cantaloupe through the gap (not that I have tried). The left knee is also rent asunder, which happened after just two powerslides.
I ask you this, Tommy: why bother wearing jeans at all, if you cannot powerslide in them?
I can overlook these things. I have come to accept them. It normally takes 3-5 years of solid wearing to achieve such respectable levels of damage, but perhaps your jeans are designed for posing rather than rocking. I have taken that into consideration.
What I cannot accept, however, is the Pocket Situation.
Just a few weeks ago, I was at a gig. FIDLAR was the band. They drink cheap beer, as was I on this occasion – having spent all my money on my bedraggled Tommy Hilfiger jeans. As it happened, I blended in rather nicely with the local aesthetic; grunge is back – had you noticed?
We commenced rocking, as is the way of these things. Being a young crowd it was high energy but harmless, and the set concluded without incident. You can imagine my surprise, therefore, when I discovered that all my possessions were missing!
I found my car keys in my boot, but my house keys were nowhere to be seen. I eventually spotted my phone being trampled on the floor. Dashing like a grubby ninja, I scooped it up, slipped it back into my jeans and promptly felt it rebound off my knee.
That was when the Pocket Situation dawned upon me.
Both front pockets have already worn away to the point of total uselessness. The holes in them are so large that, should I attempt to shove my fists into them in a showcase of pseudo-affluent nonchalance, my hands pass straight through and I end up caressing my own thighs.
This is the exact opposite of the situation I wish to achieve with these jeans, do you hear me? The exact opposite. I can caress my own thighs any time I like, Tommy. Why, I’m doing it right now. I wear these jeans so that other people will want to caress my thighs for me. Wearing them is currently a brutally false economy.
I short, my relatively-new Tommy Hilfiger jeans make me look and feel like a hobo. Indeed, they would have even caused me to have to sleep in the street after the aforementioned gig, had a drunken man not stumbled (literally) across my house keys and waved them aloft.
One does not buy Tommy Hilfiger jeans to look and feel like a hobo. One can look like a hobo any time one so desires. No, one buys Tommy Hilfiger jeans because their low-fitting waist fits one’s odd body proportions.
To conclude: they are failing in every regard to fulfil their purpose as jeans. They don’t even cover my crotch, for goodness’ sake, which seems to be the bare minimum one can expect from a pair of trousers (with the notable exception of chaps).
I am not a chaps chap, Tommy. Not deliberately, anyway. Yet by falling apart almost immediately, your pitiful jeans have thrust chaps upon me: a concept so appalling that I now feel the need to bring this missive to a swift close, so that I may shower post-haste.
I can send you the tattered remains of my “jeans” if you would like to conduct a case study into how and why this has come about.
In the meantime, please advise me on a relevant course of action. I find myself jeansless.
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