Gather round, chilluns. I wish to tell you a story, of a young lad and a wonderful sweater he once owned.
A long time ago, in a shopping mall not so far away, there was a store. The store was known as "Banana Republic Travel & Safari Co." The store contained all sorts of wonderful clothing and oddities, and it was good.
A young lad (we'll call him "vsp") once saw a sweater there that he liked very much. He put it on his Christmas list, and lo and behold, it appeared under his tree on Christmas morning. The sweater was made of 100% cotton, but was very thick and very warm. Its soft cotton fabric did not cause itching as wool sweaters were often known to do. Its primary color was that of oatmeal, with tiny flecks of earth tones all over for a little variety. It was known as the "Poet's Sweater," and it looked a little something like this:
<a href="http://img324.imageshack.us/my.php?image=poeta3np.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img324.imageshack.us/img324/363/poeta3np.th.jpg" border="0" alt="Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us" /></a><a href="http://img465.imageshack.us/my.php?image=poetb0ia.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://img465.imageshack.us/img465/593/poetb0ia.th.jpg" border="0" alt="Free Image Hosting at www.ImageShack.us" /></a>
(The second photo is the better representation of its actual color. Damn bathroom lighting.)
The young lad loved his favorite sweater, and wore it whenever he could. It was the kind of sweater equally at home at a football game or a romantic dinner, a job interview or a shopping trip. It was a match made in heaven. Sadly, the good times could not last forever.
One sinister force, known as "puberty," did its evil work. The lad grew from a slender form into a more mature one, no longer capable of wearing a size Small. He now required a Large or even an Extra Large. The lad had hopes of replacing his beloved sweater with a larger one of the same make, color and style.
Much to his dismay, a second and more evil force had crept into town and shattered the lad's dreams. The force was known by the sinister appellation of "The Gap." This force had cast an awful spell over Banana Republic, transforming it quickly from a quirky store full of delight into a spawning pit for yuppiewear. No longer were 18th century British engineer's jackets hanging on the back racks. No longer could one find a leather helmet and silk scarf alongside a leather bomber jacket. Worst of all, the Poet's Sweaters had vanished, never to return!
The lad wailed over his loss, and many years passed, turning the lad into a grumpy, cynical adult who loathed the Gap and its mall-spawn. The grump decided to travel from town to town, web site to web site, and virtual coffeeklatch to virtual coffeeklatch in search of the replacement sweater of his dreams.
And, so it has come to pass that you, too, have heard the Tale of the Poet's Sweater and the Gap That Smells of Ass.
Bounties _will be paid_ to anyone who can locate such a beast for me in good condition.