Congratulations on Fixing Your Pants!

When your ass rips during an office Christmas party and you're already well and proper wasted, you'll have three options.

Option one: you drive home, wasted out of your fucking mind, and try to get some new pants before you drive back, still wasted out of your fucking mind, to keep drinking the booze your dick boss paid for.

Unfortunately you're one more DUI away from losing your license permanently and spending five years in prison, so this option is out.

Option two: you try to fuck someone so that you spend the rest of your night shouting at your limp dick in a closet until whoever you manage to con into considering fucking you walks off in a huff, distracting people from your embarrassing pants mishap with an embarrassing sex mishap which you, for some absurd reason, consider less embarrassing than the pants thing.

Unfortunately, you've so thoroughly embarrassed yourself in front of your office mates in the past that no one is willing to sleep with you, even as a "I want to feel like I'm not approaching the end of my thirties" lark.  That leaves you with option three.

Option three is that you go to a supply closet and staple your pants together.  Unfortunately, you're going to be so god damn drunk that you won't bother trying to bunch your fabric together, and you'll instead staple your pants right into your ass in a way that simultaneously calls attention to the tear in your pants, doesn't effectively conceal your exposed "cupid underwear," and makes you bleed profusely.

You'll spend the rest of the night limping around, drinking more and more, trying to use pity to leverage someone into helping you enact option two.  There will be no takers.

Congratulations on Fixing Your Pants!