I Hate Our Freedom: Pajama Jeans

On David Cross’ first album, he did a bit about seeing a commercial for electric scissors. He discussed how, upon seeing that commercial, he had an image of George W Bush in his mind, saying how the terrorists hated our freedom. His response was, “I hate our freedom!” And I get his point: though I’m a fan of a free democracy and economy, once in a while something comes along that shows that the ability for anyone to try and sell anything isn’t always good.

(Also, I know some highly political folks will want to get into the whole “our government’s not really free, our economy’s controlled by outside interests, &c” thing. Save it, please. For the purposes of this argument here, we’re taking the simple, Civics 101 approach.)

So, with all that, I wish to inaugurate a new, semi-regular column, “I Hate Our Freedom,” with a product that shocked even my jaded sensibilities: Pajama Jeans.

Look, I get the idea behind comfortable, no-thought clothes. I’m no clothes horse myself; in fact, I often dress like a hobo with funny shirts. And if I get up early on a weekend just to grab some breakfast, I’m not bothering to clean up. I’ll toss on some sweatpants and last night’s shirt and hoof it to the Donut King. You don’t even wanna know what my unemployment wardrobe consisted of. I’m amazed I wasn’t wearing a burlap sack.

Close.

But even with all that, I still never thought to myself, “Now, if only I could fool people into thinking I was wearing actual jeans while wearing sweatpants….” And yet, the makers of Pajama Jeans decided to fill that void anyhow.

“The hot new fashion sensation!” No. No one will ever think fake jeans are a fashion sensation. I wish I could just come up with random clothing ideas and claim it was the hip new thing. “All the way from the runways of Italy! It’s Cardboard Chaps!” But thank god there’s a mock fly. I don’t want people thinking I have weird mutant jeans, and then they get concerned about how I pee in these things.

“Very well” is my answer, by the way.

I know the “brass rivets” are to further the lie that these are actual jeans, but I think it would interfere with the much-lauded comfort of the pants. Even if they’re incredibly shallow, why bother introducing metal into the equation? The minute that burrows through the “incredibly durable,” unholy union of cotton, denim, and spandex, you’ll have some weird butt marks to explain.

I haven’t seen an actor communicate “asleep” so ineffectively since Tommy Wiseau following the first sex scene in The Room.

50 Cent's first bullet wound.

A note about the “jeans are tough to get into” segment: if your jeans are leaving stigmata like the above on your tummy, YOUR JEANS ARE TOO FUCKING TIGHT. Go up a size. I don’t care if that means your world is ending, Regina George, move it on up. And quit showing me your Jordache scars. We haven’t even had dinner yet.

Lots of ass wiggling in this commercial. No joke here; just an observation.

So, we’re given not just fake jeans, but fake cheap-looking jeans. And as the commercial says, you could pay up to $80 for real jeans like this. So what does being fashion-forward yet lazy run you? $19.95?

Three easy payments!

OK, hold on: I’ve watched my fair share of infomercials, and I’ve always known $19.95 to be the sweet spot. Hell, they’ve sold machinery on TV for twenty bucks. You can get something that blends individual smoothies, or makes pocket sandwiches, or slices tomatoes razor-thin for twenty bucks. I’m not paying forty for bullshit pants. What’s their counter-offer?

Still no.

At least there’s a 60 day guarantee. I don’t know why you’d need longer than ten minutes to determine whether you like your fake jeans. It’s gonna take you that long to pair it up with your entire collection of Nascar and Three Wolf Moon shirts before you see if it’s a good fit, I guess. But you get the two months, and you still get the free T-shirt! So don’t think of it as losing forty bucks; think of it as gaining a free shirt. A creepily generic grey shirt, but still.

And why do these cost $7.95 to ship? They must weigh six ounces. Are they encased in a steel box? Are they packed in dry ice? Are they hand-delivered by a chimp on a unicycle?

Are they really? Well, then I gotta order them. I wanna see a chimp doing anything ridiculous.

There are many products being sold on television at any one time, and they usually coalesce into the white noise that makes up daily life. But Pajama Jeans just gall me so much. It’s not that they’re particularly scammy; that’s for the hologram magnet bracelets of the world. Pajama Jeans, at worst, still function as pants. I guess it’s that, even in the case of the hologram bracelet, there’s a sense of trying with these other products. It’s completely bullshit reasoning, but the bracelets are trying to solve your balance issues with magic, or midichlorians, or what have you. The Slap Chop is trying to chop food. But there’s nothing like that with Pajama Jeans. They’re simply bad facsimiles of jeans. They serve no other purpose than to try to trick people with vision deficiencies that you’re wearing denim pants. And they want forty dollars for the privilege.

If anything deserves to fall under the “I Hate Our Freedom” banner, it’s Pajama Jeans. It’s a lazy, shitty product that proves not every idea needs to be on store shelves or TV.

Stupid? Don't you mean AWESOME?

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About Louis

SUCKERPUNCH!
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5 Responses to I Hate Our Freedom: Pajama Jeans

  1. Bryn says:

    As much as I agree with the above, I still feel like they’re a step above “jeggings”. I mean, when it comes to unholy amalgams of stuff, leggings and jeans seem like they rank higher on my personal blasphemeter.

    I actually saw a pair of “jegg…” (you know what, I’m not gonna write that word anymore) in the wild, worn by a lady outside the Arclight in Hollywood. Maybe it was some sort of ultra-ironic performance art thing, but she otherwise looked like some sort of Cyndi Lauperized extra-trannied-up Lady Gaga (like that’s even possible). She was accompanied by some sort of hunky, youthful male-model-esque lad in a profound handle-bar moustache and dressed like a hipster’s version of an 1890s carny. They stood in front of us in line to pay for parking… and I wept for our country.

  2. David D. says:

    Wait, how are these different from jeggings? Not quite as tight? A little more yoga pant-y? Mock fly? Weird.

    It is great how lazily they’re creating and filling their niche. Don’t you hate pants? Here’re some pants!

  3. Cat says:

    Actually, I know who their target audience really is: Pregnant women. Because they sound like maternity jeans. Elastic top? Check. Exasperated woman struggling to get into her regular jeans? Check. However, the minute my incarceration is over, I will be switching back to regular jeans. Why you ask? Because they’re real pants! Pajama Jeans are not real pants! I also strongly object to people wearing yoga pants as real pants or velour jumpsuits with the words “juicy” written across the ass, but hey that’s me FYI, I spent over $60 on maternity jeans. Nice ones too.

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