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Cordarounds Model Citizens
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For months, Cordarounds headquarters has been besieged by its most dastardly foe: Vertical Corduroy. By land and by sea, the vicious vertical villain has squeezed our supply lines like a giant, fabric Kraken. Yet Horizontal Corduroy did not succumb. Outnumbered literally millions to one, our horizontal lines have held strong, true...and velvety-soft to the touch. 
Now, at long last, reinforcements have arrived! An armada of schooners laden with horizontal corduroy has docked in San Francisco Bay, and our hale and hearty stevedores are unloading cargo around the clock.
Only yesterday, our troops were addressed by none other than General Milbrooke Standish of the Continental Corduroy Militia. We hope his words inspire you as much as they did us.
Men, this has not been an easy year. You are tired and weary from battle. Many of you have large and unsightly wounds. And you have faced deprivations few could imagine; I suspect the thought of dining on horse hooves or the amputated toes of your fellow warriors no longer strikes you as wholly unpalatable. But through it all, gentlemen, you have worn your horizontal corduroy with pride, equally confident in your battle skills and fashion sense. And now the tide has turned! Tomorrow we shall ride forth to the shores of Trouser Beach, and we shall leave the surf frothing with our enemy’s rotten blood!
To hell with Vertical Corduroy! Let Lucifer himself choke upon its un-virtuous verticality. Huzzah, huzzah!
We're fed up with the exorbitant cost of renting in San Francisco, so we've decided to move the entire Cordarounds operation onto our brand-new airship as soon as possible. That's right, the world's finest horizontal corduroy pants will be produced amongst the clouds. Soaring eagles will inspire our scientists; brilliant sunshine will invigorate our seamstresses. It's one more reason to feel superior when you slip on a pair.
But we're going to need help. Lots of help. The Cordarounds Zeppelin will require hundreds of able-bodied crew members, from pilots to Pilates instructors. Of course, liftoff may be later rather than sooner (see funds raised below), so there’s plenty of time for you to begin training. All you need is the right attitude and at least one pair of horizontal corduroy trousers. Remember, we’re not looking for just anyone, we’re looking for anyone who wears pants.  All positions will carry the "aero-” prefix, making even the most mundane endeavor significantly more important-sounding (Aeroaccountant -- now that's more than a job, that's an adventure!) In addition, our salaries and comprehensive benefits package are among the best in the airborne pant-manufacturing industry.
Current job openings:
Aerochef: Duties will include overseeing the harpooning and gourmet preparation of geese and other migratory fowl.
Aeroconductor: Responsible for leading our in-house symphony orchestra in thunderous Wagnerian overtures whenever the Cordarounds Zeppelin appears on the horizon.
Aeroaristocrat: Pompous dandy, professional layabout, with blood bluer than
the stratosphere. Manages compulsory cocktail hour(s).
Aerostrongman: Will do the business’ "heavy lifting," both literally and figuratively -- mostly literally. Minimum three years of handlebar-mustache growth required.
AeroC++ Engineer, Level 5: Conceptual understanding of software design process, with focus on database and data analytics. Knowlege of Perl and formation. Wing-walking experience encouraged.
AeroAquanaut: Did we mention our Olympic-sized swimming pool?
Do you know His Majesty, Haji Hassanal Bolkiah Muizzaddin Waddaulah, the Sultan of Brunei? Do you know someone who knows him? If so, please forward on this message:
Your Excellency:
It has been 13 insufferable years since Bill Gates surpassed you as the world's wealthiest man. These have been dark days indeed when unparalleled personal fortune has been defined not by harems and saffron-fueled Lamborghinis made of gold, but by stock options and sensible V neck sweaters.
We at Cordarounds long to return you to your rightful place as supreme opulence incarnate, so we've begun a grassroots effort to reinstate you as the world's wealthiest man. Our contribution: the world's most expensive pair of pants.
Though they may look a pair of our $90 horizontal corduroy pants, this pair is special. Valued conservatively at $983 million, these are, without a doubt, the world's fanciest pair of pants. And they're yours for free! And what makes these pants so valuable? 
* The cotton of these fine corduroy trousers was grown and loomed exclusively on the International Space Station, then hand sewn by professional hand models, also in orbit, using fibers from the Shroud or Turin and Barry Bonds' 756th homerun baseball.
* King Tut's sarcophagus was melted down and molecularly compacted to form the 24 millimeter button of your trousers.
* Inspector #6 inspected the pants 6,000 times before proclaiming them flawless, then dying in ecstacy.
* Your Cordarounds were washed in a bath of babies' tears, warmed by a still-smoldering meteorite.
* They carry the scent of the small of Sophia Loren's back.
* They were serenaded by the ghost of Liberace.
* Finally, and we“re not sure how, at least eight Faberge eggs and a squadron of stealth fighters were destroyed in the production of your pants.
We know you would expect nothing less.
With this great gift of clothing, you are nearly 1/16th of the way to overtaking your rival in riches. Merely a sub-billion-dollar pittance, for sure, but we at Cordarounds believe all great campaigns start with a small step in the right direction.
With love,
Your Faithful Servants at Cordarounds
SPRING, Texas -- On May 2, at precisely 2:30 local time, members of Ms. McKey's English class watched in awe as a trouser-shaped UFO descended from the heavens, landing just shy of the end zone in Leonard George Stadium (home of the Lions). 
Upon closer inspection, the intrepid students discovered curious "Cord-a-locator" cards in the pockets as well as a shiny Sacajawea dollar coin -- proof that these were not just any airborne trousers, but authentic Cordarounds summer trousers, the very ones that took flight (see video) from the from San Francisco's Fort Mason on April 22nd.
While the original destination for these soaring pants was Niagara Falls , the jet stream conspired to carry our new summer cords toward more southerly climes, where the warmer weather demands an ultra-light trouser.
Click to view a slideshow of our summer line, with photos of Ms. McKey's class proudly posing with the pair of pants that will one day hang beside the Spirit of St. Louis in the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum.
On Tuesday , Earth Day, a vessel of hope took flight from San Francisco -- a pair of helium-borne trousers that rose into the firmament, and then traveled eastward upon the breath of angels.
And why? To prove an important point: That cords can be worn all summer long. They're not just any corduroy, of course, but Cordarounds' new ultra-lightweight, nano-wale trousers.
Weighing in at a scant .65 lbs, these feathery trousers need a mere 11 cubic feet of helium to go airborne -- to the envy of common khakis, jeans, and other comparatively leaden summer pants, the helium buoyancy of which is detailed below.
Given this compelling data, as well as our pants' incredible thermodynamic properties, there's simply no reason to wear anything else this summer, even when swimming or hot tubbin'.
For anyone who wears pants and dreams of flight, a veritable air squadron of light summer trousers lies on the tarmac that is our online store.
 The newest competitor in the $30 million Google Lunar X PRIZE is neither an engineer nor a pilot. In fact, he never advanced beyond his third, gin-soaked semester at the University of Mississippi-Molassesburg. But 56-year-old Sylvester Boggs-Cockrell is nothing if not a determined and courtly Southern gentleman. And when this scion of the South first learned of the international competition to send a robot to the moon, he set down his glass of iced tea, rubbed his fine white whiskers contemplatively, and exclaimed, "Mercy me, how I would so delight in beating those Yankee rapscallion tin-men to the moon myself!" And so began a leisurely but nevertheless earnest attempt to claim the X PRIZE, with Boggs-Cockrell himself at the helm. The aeronautical world has thus far approached the Boggs-Cockrell lunar module, recently christened "Ol' Magnolia," with no small amount of skepticism. The craft is being constructed of stout hickory timbers, with a fine tin roof that will "pitter-patter pleasantly with the impact of tiny meteors," according to Boggs-Cockrell mission control director, Big Glenda. Ol' Magnolia will be fueled by a 15,000 hog-power diesel locomotive engine, retrofitted to run on a high-octane whiskey blend. It will also include a handsome screened-in front porch, complete with rocking chairs and a pressurized sleeping berth for General Sassafras, Boggs-Cockrell's loyal blue tick hound.  But perhaps the spaceship's most distinctive feature is its seersucker outer shell, constructed from the same material that gives Cordarounds Suckerlab pants their incredible cooling properties, even in the sweatiest of summers. Reportedly, Boggs-Cockrell was so enamored of his own Cordarounds seersuckers that he insisted his engineering team swaddle the craft from top to bottom in the luxuriously puckered fabric, protecting it during its fiery reentry into Earth's atmosphere. "It shall be the finest astro-craft ever to sail the celestial seas," said Boggs-Cockrell in his usual gracious manner. "I will be delivered to the moon in comfort and style, and I will stroll about its surface to my heart's content, as my competitors' mechanical ne'er-do-wells observe from afar my victorious toasts with a tall gin fizz! "And upon my return," continued Boggs-Cockrell, "I will worry not a whit about excessive perspiration, thanks to the seersucker ensconcing my stately vessel ¯ as well as my cool and dewy-fresh nether regions!"
The last time riverboat gambler Beauregard P. Delacroix faced the mechanical man in a game of cards, he had lost his money, his home, and his prized Appaloosas. Worse, he had lost his cool – falling for the gambling gadget’s bluff when he could least afford to.
He blamed his pants.
 “These pants, these accursed seersucker pants!” he cried after the devastating loss. “They do make my loins sweat so! How may a gentleman stay fresh and tidy during sizzling games of chance when his holy unmentionables do boil like the crawdad in a kettle!” As Delacroix descended the gangplank, he stripped off his heretofore lucky seersucker s and tossed them into the turgid waters of the Mississippi River. “To hell with you, stifling cloth!” he announced.
And then he heard the laughter. Above him, the dastardly iron contraption and its flesh-and-blood masters from the University of Mississippi Engineering Department were taunting him from the poop deck. Delacroix spat in disgust. He vowed they would meet again.
With time, Delacroix rebuilt his fortune to even greater heights than before. By 1879 he had more horses and hogs than any man in the state. He owned turpentine warehouses, a gin distillery and even the Vicksburg Snuffatorium, which he had won in a game of whist. But all of it was meaningless without a rematch against his nemesis.
His chance came one sweltering August, when the heat was so fierce that livestock stood rendering in the fields, beards spontaneously caught on fire, and the streets ran thick with lava-hot molasses. In this hellbroth, Delacroix faced off again against the mechanical monstrosity at the Magnoliaville Annual Poker Tournament, putting on the line everything that he had worked hard to reacquire.
The contest lasted into the wee hours of the morning, until only Delacroix and his metallic opponent remained. They had bet nearly everything they had, then the metal man placed on the table the deed to Farthington Manor. The sweating crowd gasped, and the contraption let loose with a triumphant puff of steam from its exhaust portal.
“If the action is too hot for you,” the machine chirped and whined, “best you stay out of the kitchen!”
Had Delacroix been wearing ordinary pants, the action would have indeed been too hot, but not this time. Not when he was wearing a new pair of light and airy horizontal seersucker Summerounds, which kept him cool despite the furnace-like heat of the moment.
“I see your bet, you despicable mechanical cur!” he ejaculated, laying down the deed to the Snuffatorium. The machine was nervous now, and almost hesitantly it laid down its cards, revealing a full house.
“Oh my stars, how I shall enjoy summering in fair Farthington Manor,” Delacroix said coyly, showing his royal flush.  Unable to process the defeat, the machine overheated and exploded, maiming its devious masters with searing shrapnel. Delacroix, meanwhile, was deluged with winsome young lasses, who begged to make his acquaintance in the most human of ways. And with that, his Summerounds were removed far more quickly than he had anticipated.
SAN FRANCISCO, April 16 — Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, but a tourist recently discovered that you can leave your arm there as well. That is, when local fashionistas convince you to stick  your arm into a dark and foreboding grotto – a grotto that happens to be occupied by a large and remorseless sea lion, whose insatiable appetite for human flesh is exceeded only by his remarkable capacity to accurately predict the onset of the summer fashion season! Perpetually shrouded in a thick fog, San Franciscans have for years employed a most unusual method for figuring out if warm, summer weather is in the cards, a time-tested ritual that has drawn comparisons to Punxsutawney Phil, the famous weather-predicting groundhog. Each April, Bay Area designers dupe an unsuspecting visitor to reach into the bone-strewn lair of Frisco Frank, an impossibly ferocious sea lion, and attempt to feed him a crab. If the sea lion takes the crustacean, then chances are the summer swelter will be late. If, however, Frank rips the person’s arm off with his powerful jaws, then – rejoice! – white-pants weather is just around the corner. Indeed, the sight of a horrified tourist stumbling along Fisherman’s Wharf as his or her bloody stump flails in the cool morning breeze means it’s time to start buying the latest summer fashion – like Summerounds horizontal seersucker pants and shorts. “Clearly, the long, hot summer is upon us,” said Cordarounds founder Chris Lindland, coolly observing Frisco Frank devour tourist Todd Murphy’s left arm. “Time for cold, refreshing beverages and cool, seersucker pants and shorts like these."  This year’s Summerounds come in new colors, with new linen liners and more pucker. They’re stylish and also surprisingly high-tech – reportedly at least 90 degrees cooler than traditional seersucker pants.
Historical note: Few doubt Frisco Frank’s powers of prognostication or sense of style. Legend has it that Levi Strauss, another notable San Francisco pant maker, would con hapless gold prospectors into feeding the sea lion with arms swathed in different fabrics. Frank’s extraordinary appetite for denim inspired Straus to design jeans, particularly in the color blue.
 The world of tactile technology was satisfied with "soft as a baby's bottom" as the measure of absolute softness. Anyone who dared name something "softer than" the aforementioned infant's posterior was suggesting a theoretical, quantum world of soft that existed beyond anything man could conceive.
That is, until researchers at the Cordarounds Livermore Laboratory invented the Tactile Soft-o-meter, a device that can detect and compare the density of softrons, the subatomic units of softness. And while this has proven a Nobel worthy discovery, our scientists could not simply rest on their laurels.
Using this newfound knowledge, they set out to line the pockets of our world famous reversible smoking jackets. And so comfy was the fabric they developed, so rich and impossibly supple, that test subjects had to have their hands removed from the coat pockets with the Jaws of Life. Success!
But what to name this miracle material? Again and again, the Soft-o-meter produced a result that had our marketing department in a nervous titter. But we're scientists dammit, not salesmen, and if the Soft-meter says this fabric measures "Vagisoft" within a standard deviation of one softron, so it shall be named!
This week, we celebrate our scientific breakthrough with an irresistible, limited edition Valentiens gift -- the Vagisoft blanket. Now, for the low price of $50, you can envelop yourself in Vagisoft and experience the in-pocket paradise that lies within each and every Cordarounds reversible smoking jacket.
Are these blankets wonderful gifts for friends, family and loved ones? Yes.
Cordarounds Adventurer Emeritus Wellington Stack has always been ready to take his Cordarounds to the limit, whenever and wherever duty calls. Recently, we asked him to subject our trousers to a grueling test of gluttony – and report back in time for the Thanksgiving holiday. The question at hand: Could Cordarounds survive a stomach-expanding meal of Thanksgiving-like proportions, without its button rocketing forth from its stitching? Mr. Stack’s dispatch follows.  BY WELLINGTON STACK
A crisp, October morning found me in a somnolent tavern in the meat-weaving district of Kathmandu, utterly exhausted, a flagon of rakshi in hand. I had arrived from the Nepalese hinterland only days earlier after one of the most difficult Cordarounds field tests yet. It had left me bloodied, concussed and in need of an appendectomy – to say nothing of my Cordarounds, which were dusty and redolent of soot and yak dung. But that’s the price one pays for two days of nonstop breakdancing with angry Gurkhas to assess the durability of our zippers. Now, I was recuperating with strong drink and an indomitable will to survive another day – and put another pair of Cordarounds through its paces.
Be careful what you wish for! No sooner than had I taken off my boots and curled up for a nap that the satellite phone rang. It was headquarters, instructing me to catch the next flight to Atlanta, Georgia, where, in advance of Thanksgiving, I would subject a fresh pair of Cordarounds to the rigors of a greasy, gluttonous meal. If I failed, horizontal corduroy would have no place at the dinner table on Turkey Day! And the ghost of Miles Standish would surely haunt me forever. I quickly gathered my rucksack and souvenir “Kat Man Dude” tee-shirts, bade Chhongba a tearful farewell, and headed for the airport.
Two days and 8,000 miles later, my Olive Cordarounds and I arrived at venerable Mulligans Bar to take on the Ultimate Hamdog. (Lindland scientists had concluded that with a side of tater tots and several cans of beer, the Ultimate Hamdog was the caloric, if not aesthetic, equivalent of a full Thanksgiving meal.) Soon, the mélange of hot dog, hamburger, bacon, cheese, onions, chili and egg arrived at the bar in a formidable, steaming heap. This would not be an easy task, certainly no less challenging than my last unicycle dash across the DMZ while eating a sack of kimchee. I took a deep breath, and drew my first forkful.  Seemingly disinterested in my gustatory adventure were the precious few bar patrons – just a small group of very short men drinking Schnapps and throwing darts, and a gentleman in a waist coat and baggy breeches, who had introduced himself as an adult-diaper salesman. This was lonely work indeed. At times like these, my old friend Chhongba used to say that it is good to fight like the leopard, but it is also good to run like the hare, and, sometimes, it is wise to sit like a melancholy bull and say nothing. I used this thoughtful but ultimately inappropriate piece of wisdom to distract me from a growing feeling of suffocation. So much meat, and in so many forms! I’ll admit that I thought about quitting. But each time I felt my mouth filling beyond its natural limits with fat and oozing cheese, I thought about the Pilgrims. I thought about America. And I looked down at my lap and thought about my Cordarounds.
So I pressed on. After what seemed like an eternity, a gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder. It was the adult-diaper salesman. “A job most well-done, my friend,” he said, motioning toward my empty plate. Empty! As if emerging from a dream, I realized that I had somehow managed to eat the entire Ultimate Hamdog. And my pants had weathered the strain without so much as a loose stitch! Yes, Cordarounds had passed the gluttony test. As I dialed headquarters to deliver the good news, I couldn’t help announcing to everyone in the bar that horizontal corduroy was now officially Thanksgiving-approved.
“What the hell does that mean?” one of the dart throwers barked. The adult-diaper salesman slowly turned to me and winked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” he said, with a hearty laugh. “You’ll know soon enough!” And then, incredibly, we watched him don a black-buckled hat and vanish into thin air.
“My God!” the dart thrower yelped, spilling his Schnapps everywhere, “That was the ghost of Miles Standish!”
If you have any questions for Wellington Stack, pant adventurer, don’t hesitate to leave them in the comments section of the Cordarounds Mailbag (after Wellington’s story). He’s certain to reply.
Dear Ladies,  When you wipe up a spill with a Brawny paper towel, who do you think of? A rugged and intriguing woodsman, of course. Take a drag off your Marlboro, and does your mind’s eye not wander to a stark, beautiful dreamscape, where a handsome cowboy pauses to survey the infinite horizon before lighting another cigarette and calling softly to his four-legged charges? And each time you spread a luxuriously smooth lump of McCorkle’s Meat Paste on a saltine cracker, your pulse must surely quicken at the sight of Uncle Beefly, whose toothless mouth and meat paste-drizzled beard graces every can. Please, take a moment to sigh heavily and wipe the perspiration from your forehead. At Cordarounds, we recognized the need for an icon of dashing, unbridled masculinity as a spokesman for our new line of corduroy skirts. And after an exhaustive search that took us from the opium dens of Phnom Penh to the pages of the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog and back again, we found our man. Lazenby! He is a mysterious character, this Lazenby, riding his horse through the fog-shrouded streets of San Francisco. Women swoon and ruffians flee at the mere mention of his name. He is a legendary lover, we are told, and also volunteers at an animal shelter. He can cook gourmet meals and is equally adept at fisticuffs. He is everything a woman desires, and so much more. It should also be mentioned that he loves the new Cordarounds skirt. To this end, we recently received a brief missive from Lazenby, penned in flawless calligraphy: What is a skirt, dear sirs, but an elegant interruption of my inevitable caress upon a fair maiden’s soft, milky thighs? No cloth, horizontal or otherwise, is a match for the lightning-quick hands of Lazenby! But if there must be even a shred of a thread ensconcing the lap of a lovely lass -- an obstruction and obfuscation that brings a sporting smile to the lips of Lazenby -- then I say the foiling fabric should conspire to form nothing less than a Cordarounds skirt! As I ride hither and thither through the mist and darkness of the city, women turn their heads at the clippity-clop, clippity-clop of my steed, and they swoon at the sight of Lazenby -- if they are so lucky to see more than his shadow! And, it must be admitted, when they are clad in a skirt of horizontal corduroy, they reach out with arms unseen to tug at the heart and loins of Lazenby. And he must ride -- quickly now! -- lest the siren song sung by these skirts puts an end to his wandering ways.
Oh, Lazenby!
Why are Cordarounds the preferred pant of secret agents, ninjas and justice-seeking vigilantes like the indomitable Ted Fist (featured below)? That’s easy: The meshing wales of these wonderpants allow for effortlessly swish-free sneakabouts -- no vrrt-vrrts, woosh-wooshes or other onomatopoeic tip-offs that you’re on the prowl. 
Most of our customers are, in fact, employed in professions requiring the utmost stealth as well as a high degree of proficiency with throwing stars. So we thought it was time to make a pair of trousers just for them: the PAYBACK Cordarounds. These black, thin-wale classic Cordarounds are styled with black paisley pockets and liners. They’re very, very black. They mean business. And yet they’re our most fancy-pants pants to date, equally at home in the VIP room or the interrogation room.
 But we didn’t stop there. Oh no. In our never-ending quest to properly outfit our daring and deadly clientele, we went one step further. Sure, PAYBACK pants are dashing when paired with our reversible smoking jacket, but why just think outside the box when you can silently shoot it from 2,000 meters? To wit: the Urban Jungle Sniper Coat!
Since Cordarounds lives on the bleeding edge of fashion, we felt duty-bound to urbanize the sniper’s trusty ghillie coat. Designed to make you look like a mound of moss wherever you go, the Urban Jungle Sniper Coat is perfect for any occasion when discretion is paramount. (It’s mesh woven, so you can insert local flora and blend into any environment, like quiet bouquet of ill-tidings.)
You can find these and other fantastic new items in the Cordarounds store --your #1 online destination for Valentine’s Day gifts. For Him. For Her. For Adventure.
Kind Sirs: As you and undoubtedly most San Franciscans well know, Civil War reenacting is never a particularly comfortable endeavor. Especially during the long, Alabama summer, when we must take to the roasting battlefield in our heavy burlap jackets and scratchy woolen trousers, when the heat of combat is exceeded only by the steamy, tortuous environs between pant and leg. Why, after the Battle of Hooper’s Mill, my unmentionables were no less miserable than the Okeefenokee Swamp, and even with generous applications of salves and medicinal powders, my chafed thighs remain quite tender to the touch!  So you can imagine my surprise and envy when, during the annual reenactment of The Massacre at Blood Mountain last month, I spied through my field glasses several Union reenactors charging toward our redoubt … wearing luxurious, seersucker pants! Gorgeous, Union-blue pants, loose-fitting and ingeniously horizontal in nature. Feeling as cool and fresh as a spring morning in the Shenandoah, those Yankees broke through our lines and annihilated the regiment with even more speed and vigor than was historically called for. As I pretended that the thrust of a Union bayonet had pierced my spleen, I crumpled to the ground, moaning: “If only my men had such fine and stylish pants!” Weeks later, while leafing through the latest issue of Confederate Quartermaster Monthly, I saw an advertisement for these wonderful pants, these so-called “Summerounds,” available for a limited time only in …GREY! I can not adequately convey to you in this modest missive the tears and Rebel Yells and other assorted enthusiasms with which my men received the news. Needless to say, each and every one of us has ordered copious amounts of your grey Summerounds; with the Reenactors’ Ball fast approaching, one cannot have too much fine toggery. But I am getting ahead of myself. Before our grey Summerounds can delight the belles, they will delight in the thrill of battle! After victory at Culver’s Crossroads, we will once again be roundly defeated at the Skirmish of Crabapple Corners. On that day, the creek will run red with blood, after the dye is poured in. We will imagine that Union rifles are shooting real bullets, that swords have razor-sharp edges, that there are actual horses to trample our mangled, perforated corpses into the mud. As always, we will gallantly pretend-fight to the last man. But as that last man falls to the ground, he shall do so, this year, in comfort and style. Huzzah, Summerounds, huzzah! Most Sincerely Yours, O. Rutherford Pickling III Captain, 134th Alabama Volunteer Infantry Adjunct Professor of American History, Cyprus City Community College
Now that soccer season has arrived, we think it’s the perfect time to discuss Shortarounds, our line of Cordarounds shorts. These are faithful replicas of 19th century Welsh “sporting breeches,” the trousers of choice for fierce devotees of a legendary gentleman’s game that would give rise to the modern game of soccer. That sport was none other than Skunk Kicking.
Whether Skunk Kicking grew out of boredom or a deep resentment toward skunks, we cannot say. The rules were strikingly simple: chase and, if possible, kick a skunk – without being sprayed, clawed or having one’s toes chewed off. Suffice it to say, competitors had to move deftly.
In 1837, the so-called “aristocrathletes” of Wales decided to reorient the wales of their corduroy shorts horizontally, an aerodynamic innovation that forever changed the sport. With their newfound quickness, they could deploy a full arsenal of talents – dribbling, passing, and bicycle-kicking the skunk – while easily avoiding a foul-smelling reprisal.
 The horizontal shorts worked too well. So nimble and fleet of foot did these skunk kickers become, there was soon no challenge in simply kicking a skunk. Why, with a pair of horizontal corduroys, any portly schoolboy or one-legged knave could suddenly kick like Rees “Thunderfoot” Llewellyn, Cardiff’s skunk-kicking wonder!
In a vain effort to preserve the sport’s exclusivity, the Welsh elite devised a confusing set of rules, including indirect skunk kicks, off sides, and golden goals, but their efforts were for naught. Across Britannia, sport-crazed commoners quickly learned the rules of the game and, what’s more, feverishly applied black and white paint to anything they could get their hands on – sheep bladders, hog heads, hedgehogs and a variety of pastries, to name just a few – in lieu of an exceedingly expensive skunk. Then in 1845, a Scottish cobbler named Jarvis Meade created his legendary “Foot Ball,” and the Beautiful Game was officially born.
In this matter, we at Cordarounds have been accused of historical revisionism, a crass attempt to cash in on the popularity of the World Cup. To that we say: Is it mere coincidence that the modern soccer ball is black and white? Or that a lopsided defeat is known as a “skunking”? Note the hairstyle on Serbian World Cup striker Daniel Ljuboja. We rest our case.
Now you can wear a piece of history – and look great doing it. Cordarounds is pleased to offer our new line of horizontal-corduroy shorts. Wear them with your favorite soccer jersey, and tell the world that you have a profound appreciation for the history of the sport.
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