He had been sitting in the living room, having grumpily turned off the even-then-ancient black-and-white TV that had dared deny him his Saturday ritual, his customary deluge of cartoon images.

Justin had stalked into the room.  “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Close behind him, nearly stepping on his heels in what could not have been more deliberate, Chris’ other, younger cousin George (Georgie, as he would be known to the rest of the family for a time that would ultimately try his patience).

“JUSTIN JEANS!  JUSTIN JEANS!”

It had been Georgie’s latest insult of choice, derived from a well-known TV commercial at the time for “Jesse Jeans,” one of at least four indistinguishable brands of designer jeans that, in their early-1980’s heyday, promised the wearer innumerable sexual experiences in exchange for $50 and the willingness to walk around in public trapped in tight-fitting denim with a generically-shaped embroidered design prominently emblazoned on each ass-cheek.  Georgie, somewhat ironically, had seized upon this fodder for teasing, unaware of the inherent idiocy of the actual product, interested, as a ten-year-old boy would be, in the similarity of the name to his chosen victim — who in those years was primarily Justin, given his older sister’s willingness to slap the living shit out of him.