Holy shit do I hate button fly jeans.
This is something that’s been weighing on me for the better part of my jeans-wearing life (so, since high school). And now that the CEO of Levi Strauss has gone on record with the HOTTEST of jeans takes, this seems like a timely opportunity for me to vent.
So, vent I will.
First, a little background. Since I haven’t spent much (see: any) time researching the urination patterns of the American male, I can only speak from personal experience. I tend to lean a bit toward the lazy side, so my setup has always been a simple one: boxers with a dickhole, and pants with a zipper. When I step up to the urinal, I’m in, then I’m out. No unnecessary fussing with a bunch of stupid apparatuses like belts or buttons. I unzip, slide my equipment out, take a piss, shake, make sure none of me is left hanging out in harm’s way, then zip back up. Pretty standard fare.
All of this is rendered meaningless if button fly jeans are involved.
Now you’re talking about unbuckling a belt, which creates a whole set of issues in and of itself. You ever seen the sidewall of a urinal? And you’re OK with your belt and/or the side of your pants potentially flapping up against someone else’s pubes nestled in yet someone else’s loogie-booger? That’s fucking gross, man.
But let’s say your motor skills are on point, and you’ve managed to keep your clothes out of the used dip caked onto the ballpark pisser. Now you’re in for the treat of one-by-one getting your buttons unfastened to a point where you’ve got enough clearance to hoist your your meatus up over your undies into fresh air, and can finally relieve yourself. So maybe only one button for Peter North. But that means ALL the buttons for the rest of us.
“Oh, but they only take a few extra seconds to undo,” the button fly apologists are saying. You ever had to pee so bad your back hurt? Seconds matter, people.
So why? Why are we living in a society that deems these satan snaps acceptable? Why risk pissing, or — God forbid — shitting yourself because you didn’t have a timely evacuation plan in place?
Depends on who you ask. Anyone who works in the male apparel industry, or actually reads the 187 pages of ads in GQ, will tell you it’s a fashion thing. To which I call “bullshit”. Without proper inspection, there’s zero way for a casual observer to tell whether a pair of pants has a zipper or button fly. And you can’t just walk around poking your fingers into someone else’s bulge. That’s assault, brother.
For arguments sake, let’s say you’re a bigger pants aficionado than me, and you can tell the difference between flies. No one — and I mean absolutely NO ONE — has ever uttered the sentence “I really like the way those button dimples accentuate his shaft.” The only time anyone comments on your barn door is when you’re oblivious to the fact that it’s wide open.
In reality, the only reason button fly jeans even exist is because that’s the way the original jeans were created. Quick history lesson: Levi Strauss riveted his first pair of denim trousers in 1873. The modern zipper wasn’t invented until 1913, and didn’t gain traction in the fashion industry until the 1940’s. So the only way to batten down the hatches was with buttons. Makes sense. But just because that’s the way something was doesn’t make it right (looking at you, Mississippi). I could amputate below the knee with a dull file if I stepped on a nail, but I’d rather just get a tetanus shot, you know?
We’ve had ready access to zippers for 70 years. Why not accept change and embrace the convenience science has afforded us?
“I just like the feel of undoing my pants the way they did back then, man.” Well then, you can go shit in a pot outside, hipster.
So fuck you, worthless button fly jeans. And if you happen to see the CEO of Levi Strauss strutting around in the piss and urinal residue coated denim he never washes, feel free to give him a hearty kick in the buttons for me.