I Grotto Go

I don't know how Hugh Hefner does it. I wore my silk pajamas to bed last night and dreamt of the days when my grotto used to filled with nubile young girls. I also slid out of bed twice and slept the rest of the night with the cat dragging me around the apartment. Forgive my appearance, this morning.

Of course, wearing silk these days, is tantamount to clubbing seals after animal rights activists stepped up their campaign to save the mulberry silkworm. The process of dipping the cocoons into boiling water before the little bastards can chew their way out and ruin the continuous thread is what has them up in arms. A recent raid on a Japanese silkworm farm resulted in the deaths of seventeen workers but 1500 silkworm pupae were saved and set free.
Everyday I live with the knowledge that my jammies brought about the deaths of thousands of miniscule worms. I can't even look at my seal head slippers anymore.

Fashion can be fickle, however. When the Japanese cut off our silk supply by bombing Pearl Harbour we were forced to come up with our own substitutes and polyester was born. For a while it was considered a reasonable exchange by freedom lovers everywhere, as evidenced by the wash and wear leisure suit, but the government was appalled at how they looked on t.v. and a plan was hatched to re-take the silk factories. We were back in the silk and none too soon.

Since then the debate has raged unabated. I refused to be drawn into the fray until one morning about ten years ago when I stepped outside to pick up the paper and was doused in paint by a rough looking crowd that was chanting, "Pupae Killer." I retreated to the safety of the grotto to consider the alternatives but just couldn't stomach the idea of Rayon jammies. That was when I formed The Coalition Against The Coalition For The Freedom Of Little Worms Everywhere. I want to make something clear, however. The T.C.A.T.C.F.T.F.O.L.W.E. has nothing against the gelatinous pupae of the mulberry silkworm. We just hate those smarmy little bastards who run around splashing paint on peoples pajamas.

I'm afraid, though, that considering my nocturnal meanderings and the drained and unused grotto, along with the advancing age of the nubile young girls, I just don't have any use for silk jammies anymore and I'm tendering my resignation to the T.C.A.T.C.F.T.F.O.L.W.E. this morning. An era has ended and a new one must begin. Its cotton p.j.s for me now. Until the Coalition For The Advancement Of Cotton Consciousness finds me, that is.