Since dressing himself that morning, Haringa had felt his pants getting crankier, so it seemed appropriate that he assuage their orneriness by getting them laid.
"We prefer virgin wool," they told him. He shuddered, for they were either unaware or cared not at all about his deep-rooted aversion to sheeply things. But with his ass having been chapped so thoroughly over the course of the day, he was beginning to think a woolly solution might yet be acceptable .
He remembered that the missus often shopped at Wictoria's Sucret, and it was odds-on that they would have something to satisfy his drawers' virginal cravings. Thus, he set out with guardedly high hopes, trying his best to ignore the discomfort as his pants rode up time and again.
"I would like something in virgin wool," he said to the saleslady, who responded with a questioning look. "It's not for me, it's for my pants," he explained.
The rather stern-faced young woman glanced down, raised an eyebrow, and conjugated something silently. "So, they're quite cranky, are they?"
"It's their nature."
"How did you find us?" the woman asked. "We're not on any map."
Haringa glanced down as one of his cuffs rose to attention. "Acceptable."
The woman handed him a bundle of fuzzy pink fabric. It was soft to the touch, though vile in every other way. His hands were shaking as he took it from her.
"Mind you don't get seduced."
"It's for my pants."
"Yeah, that's right. That's $49.97, including tax."
He paid with cash, as a credit card bill from Wictoria's would arouse suspicion at home.
Alas, it mattered none at all, for when Haringa reached home, the missus was waiting for him. When she saw the relaxed crease in his trousers, she gonged him in the head with her frying pan.
They buried him pantsless, in an ungrammatical coffin. The angora was never seen again, but it wasn't long before Joshi, many miles distant, began to look pained.