"Dave! Dave! Tell us about your No Pants Day! adventures"
Such is the chorus (in the mind) of a pantsless superstar.

Sit down my loyal fans and listen to this trouserless tale.

Fully-panted I made my way through another day of work. When the proverbial whistle blew I shed the shackles of the week and busted a seam right out of there. Some hours later dressed to the sevens (pants are worth two, or so I've heard) I made one final self examination in the mirror. No lumps, not that it was that kind of examination, nor is that a joking matter. Regardless, my super-starched shirt was in place beneath the black and silver vest and the sporty tuxedo jacket. A last minute adjustment to the lip-smacking red bow tie and a glance at the nearly black "Meet the Parents" boxers and I was out the door. My wingtips and black socks didn't even carry me a block before I heard the first cackle, "Put some pants on!"

"Can't. I'm headed to a No Pants party."

Off I went down the street, no doubt cutting a dapper outline against the moonlit sky. Moonlit here being the poetic way of saying light-polluted sky, but nobody says "light-polluted sky." Moonlit it is and I'm headed to the transport preferred by city slickers like myself. Good evening sweet Metro, please don't arrest me kind sirs. And they obliged.

Gliding on a moving staircase, I emerge, like a half-dressed God, onto the Metro platform where I am greeted by a throng of my fellow Friday nighters. Not my fellow Friday nighters as they all seem to have on their pants. Some chuckle. Some move away and some just stare. I smile. I stifle a giggle. Happy No Pants Day, I think to myself.

The train arrives and I stand waiting for the door. The doors open and a woman strides out. She looks at my shiny red bow tie and exclaims "nice tie." "Thanks," I say as she looks south. A quizzical expression crosses her face as our paths diverge.

My arrival at the party does not go unnoticed. While others have contributed to a growing pile of pants at the door, I have entered without pause; I have entered without pants. I won't be the last of the evening, but I will be the best dressed. I'm the prom date your mother warned you about. Only much older and probably a lot more innocent despite my glaring lack of suspenders. I'll spend the evening with the many Hefners in their bathrobes. A man in a lab coat and no pants will befriend me and a Superman in his tights will ignore me to hit on one of the many skirts.

At one point in the evening I will land on the couch. I'll watch as a small amount of dancing goes on around me. The kilted will shake their drafty moneymakers, as will the many boxered and t-shirted. Suddenly. I said, Suddenly, without warning, I will be attacked. My lap as dance floor and somehow after at least 14 years of planning I will be dumbfounded. Only able to throw my hands up in the air to fend off this surprising manuever, I will be laughed at yet again. It will not be the last time. It seems to come with the pantsless territory.

Many hours later, when No Pants Day begins to blur into the day after No Pants Day, I make my way home. Saying goodbye to the woman in lingerie and the Hefner that hosted it all I head back to the public transportation continuing my public display of calves.

Who should I meet? A pantsless Santa Claus! No. I'm lying.
I met a woman who was either high, drunk, or some combination of the three. She was very sweet when she was lucid. Try as she might, she could not fathom the location of my missing pants. At least three times she asked, "Where are your pants?"