Mempsis (memp’-sis): Expressing complaint and seeking help.

Since I started getting old, my butt has started shrinking. It used to be like a big baked ham. It provided a cushion to sit on no matter where where I was—on the rocks by the ocean, at a wooden picnic table, on a bar stool, on a park bench. Since my butt has more less disappeared, sitting on any of those hard surfaces has become uncomfortable, almost to the point that I’d rather stand. Shore rocks are especially difficult, as well as quarried blocks. I’ve taken to carrying a small round pillow that belonged to my mom and held a prominent place on our living room couch. She left it to me in her will with a cryptic message: “Don’t fear the surface.” Evidentially my butt-shrink malady was hereditary. Although the pillow is great, there’s another shrunken butt problem that I think I’ve solved.

When my butt was like a baked ham, it provided a sort of shelf for my pants to rest on. Now that my butt has diminished, the shelf is gone and my pants have started falling down. When I bent over or squatted my butt crack showed. For example, a few weeks ago, I squatted down in the grocery store to grab my favorite cereal off the bottom shelf. I felt a cool breeze and a woman started yelling at me, covering her eyes, and calling me a “dirty old butt flasher.” A crowd gathered and somebody threw a loaf of Italian bread at me. It was humiliating, and painful too.

So, I tried tightening my belt three notches, but all that did was cut off the flow of blood to my kidneys. I also tried smaller pants—they were uncomfortable, especially on my man parts: if I moved the wrong way, it was like I got shot in the crotch. Besides, my pants still managed to inch their was down my hips and I couldn’t pull them up because they were too tight. Here’s my solution: suspenders! I always wondered why people wore them. Now, I know why: to gracefully manage the symptoms of the terrible physical condition I relentlessly suffer from: Dwindling Butt Syndrome (DBS). The suspenders will keep my pants up. I made this discovery last Christmas when I took my granddaughter to the mall to see Santa Claus. When he got up to get a drink of water, I noticed he had diminished butt. I saw that he had a big pillow on his Santa Throne. I understood that. But what I didn’t understand was how he kept his Santa trousers up in the face of his case of DBS. So, I asked. He said, “Ho, Ho, Ho, son. See these babies?” He stuck his thumbs behind his suspenders, pulled the suspenders out, and snapped them. “Get yourself a pair of these, and your pants will stay up like your butt has regenerated.” Santa smiled and handed me a little candy cane, and gave one to my granddaughter too.

Well there you have it. Santa gave me a tip for life that was the best Christmas gift I ever got. Even though I am deeply grateful to Santa, I’m considering having my butt cheeks pumped full of collagen.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (

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