ark, all who would go without a sweater in such times as these! Do not brave such foul elements, do not think thy self beyond the grasp of fate's cruel touch, do not believe the chill to be easily conquered by longpants and a second shirt or a lightweight hoodie.
Thrice has history witnessed such foolhardy notions by individuals not so very different from yourself. Thrice have the horrors which followed been committed to songs whose sorrowful notes would echo through the ages. Thrice has tragedy found root in the nearly frozen soil of sweater weather such as this.
uthbert was easily the largest man in his village. Though he was barely in his twenties, his powerful frame kept even the elders from opposing his occasional misdeeds. The village acceded to his every want, and gradually Cuthbert's wants continued to grow.
In time, he had eaten from every pantry, filled his pockets with coins from every household, and shaved his name on the sides of every dog in the village. Each demand was only slightly more offensive than the last, and as a result none felt that the imposition was severe enough to warrant standing up to the large man's wrath.
One morning, Cuthbert awakened to find that the air had grown slightly cool. He refused the sweater offered up by a kindly old man, pushing the well-meaning weakling to the ground.
'Your eyes are old and undoubtedly failing so I will forgive you', said Cuthbert with a laugh, 'but my strength is plain for all to see. No sweater can contain me, and no chill can defeat me - no matter how moderate it may be.'
The old man's intrinsic good nature stirred him to insist that Cuthbert wear the sweater, but seventy three years of common sense held his tongue. He hung his head sadly as the young man sauntered past.
Cuthbert was found less than an hour later. He had been mauled by the dreaded bear Hardok, whose claws and teeth could only be stopped by the surface of a sweater.
weaters of yore adorned the castle's interior walls. It was impossible to place one's hand on the bare flagstone and take a step in either direction without brushing against the itchy fiber of an ancient relic.
There was Elric The Just's golden turtleneck, next to Balhaut's feared snowman-and-reindeer fleece, and across from them hung Lord Wesdrake's blessed purple and white sweater, with the wide elastic band at the bottom that made everything above it appear frumpy and balloon-like in comparison. A finer collection of noteworthy sweaters had never been assembled in one location.
The castle's new owner was not fond of history. He was, in fact, a brutal warlord who had dethroned and decapitated the family that had ruled their kingdom with compassion for twenty three generations.
By his order, every last sweater was pulled from the wall, dragged to the courtyard and kicked repeatedly while the captive townsfolk looked on in horror.
This callous act came back to haunt the warlord in the early winter months, when a slight chill settled upon the castle, and its enormous nipples - now completely uncovered - became nauseatingly perky.
ery few survived the journey. The winter seas had been unusually harsh, and with most of their supplies befouled by rodents, the pitiful group had simply huddled together under heavy blankets, hoping that their faith would sustain them.
They made landfall with less than one fifth of their original number still alive. With the worst of the weather behind them, many discarded the swaddling that had kept them warm on the boat, but none thought to don their sweaters.
Casavertes moved through the crowd of weary figures, imploring them to reconsider.
'I have spent far too long under cover', said one. 'My skin welcomes the respite.'
'Nonsense', said another. 'It's slightly chilly, but once we get some food in our bellies and some blood pumping in our moving muscles we'll be fine.'
By week's end, the others had been frozen solid, but Casavertes had been saved by his sweater. It had snagged on a branch, holding him back as the others filed into a walk-in freezer.
One roommate's art-fueled movement goes terribly wrong.
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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