"He's a portly child," that's what my Mister Softee truck-sized grandmother told her girlfriend, Isabel Kurtz right in front of me as I opened my 12 year old birthday gift (late) that looked like it was wrapped by monkeys. Inside, the Christmas paper was a stiff pair of Husky Dungarees folded three times (years later, one of these would be tested as a heat shield tile on the Space Shuttle).
"Size 33! Perfect!" Nice and long, too, so I could roll them up and look like a double jerk. As I stood there mumbling curses under my breath (she had the hearing ability of an nocturnal animal), my grandmother said, "Tommy, get the Cool Whip, powdered sugar and Bundt cake." I put my Huskys down, got the stuff and served the master. Of course, I had a piece.
I'm telling a story about how I turned my Huskys car accident into one of the cooler Tee-Shirts I've ever owned. It's acquisition involved Sinatra's "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter."