Bad news, friends. Your skinny jeans are slowly sapping the life out of you — that is if they haven't killed you already. You could be dead right now and not even know it, like something out of a M. Night Shyamalan movie. In fact, let's just assume that you are dead and I am addressing a bunch of ghosts.
Ghosts, you'd be alive right now if it weren't for those skinny jeans you always insisted on wearing. They were pinching your nerves. They were giving you blood clots that probably moved to your brain and murdered you, which is why you are transparent and alone right now, left solely with the memory of that potter's wheel and the echo of the Righteous Brothers playing in some distant background. If only you had spent your life in a pair of cotton overalls— you would be alive right now as opposed to floating above the pew as your sister gives some disingenuous eulogy. She always seemed a little too interested in your husband Don— she has since high school— and now she has her chance, all because you like(d) your pants in a slimmer cut.
If it wasn't your jeans, it was definitely your shoes that killed you. If not your shoes, then it was your Spanx. Or your belt. The point is you're dead and it was all because of fashion. You should probably find some Whoopi-esque medium to let everyone know that it was the clothes that really did it. Don is going mad with grief and a thirst for vengeance. He deserves the closure. We all do.