Dirt Magnet

Unfasten your bedazzled belts. It's practically Memorial Day. Which means one thing. It's now safe to move about the world in white. But just between us, I don't think I'm ready. Wearing white just never seems to work out for me. High school history books and secret government files will verify that the SJG is simply incapable of wearing white without attracting instantaneous schmutz. Much like Pigpen, I'm a dirt magnet. How it lands on me, I can't tell you, but there it is, a black smudge of unknown origin, a stubborn spot that will never come out. Oh sure, I can Shout it out, drown it in bleach to no avail. Trust me, this mockery is eternal. An endless reminder: "Don't do it, do it, do it, don't you break out the white. You know what will happen if you put on those crisp virgin Banana Republics purchased at a delightful discount. They'll be corrupted. Deflowered by a demon speck.  But knowing you, gambler that you are, you'll do it, anyway. You'll risk it all just for that brief moment in time. For a millisecond, those whiter-than-whites are perfect in every way, which makes you perfect, too."