Arising from my winter's slumber, I peer outside to see that hunting season in upon us. No more will I suffer through obstructed views, for it is the time of care-free attire, the dawn of the exposed navel, and the season of the thong. There are those of you that think you can hide, but you are no match. To the undiscerning eye, you are another ass on the street, but to me, you are the bearer of the t-back. I see you, whether you want me to or not, and I know what you are wearing. To those who proudly display their fine tastes in undergarments, I salute you, but alas it is the cowards that provide the thrill of the hunt. The no-nonsense, I-wear-a-thong-to-prevent-pantylines people are the trophies, for I can see your lines, and in attempting to hide you make the spoils that much sweeter. You can't hide behind the hue of your drawers, for I see all. The shape on your buttock is clear, I know what's under there, and the image will remain mine, forever more. The fat black women try and ruin the hunt, mercilessly displaying their long suffering undergarments, appearing more as industrial strength slingshots than thongs. But fear not, for redemption lies just outside a Starbucks, where three dames worthy of the thong are unknowingly on display. As an added salute, one bends to crush out her cigarette, and the tag is displayed. The tag. The 12-point buck of the thonghunters world. For that, my friend, I thank you.
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Tis the season of the thong! Strut freely, bend carelessly, and always know, the hunters eyes are upon you.