Sam Venable  

Special Contributor

There is a special place in hell for the person(s) who invented the plastic clothing tag holder.

OK, so maybe “clothing tag holder” isn’t the proper name for it, but you know what I’m talking about. It’s that sliver of plastic thread with a fat T at both ends. One T is embedded in the fabric of the clothing itself. The other T holds the price tag in place. Surely you have seen one.

One, my foot. You’ve seen hundreds of the awful things, and you probably hate them as much as I do.

I can understand why clothing manufacturers are attracted to these little do-jiggies. Once implanted, they can keep a price tag in place through fires, earthquakes, floods, after-Christmas sales, and other natural disasters. That’s the problem. They hold on too long. After they have served their purpose, they refuse to go away. Instead, they stick around and become pests. Didn’t kudzu start out this way?

The first time I tried to remove one of these loathsome devices, I yanked a large pigtail of yarn from the sleeve of a new sweater. Silly me. I figured all I had to do was pluck the thing out and throw it away. How was I to know it was rooted deeper than a mature California redwood?

So I tried cutting it.

One snip with fingernail clippers and the tag fell away. But that only compounded the problem.

You see, one of the T’s was still buried deep inside my sweater. The other dropped silently to the floor where it remained—upright and invisible—until I walked barefoot through the room two days later. (Odd, now that I think back on it. I had no idea I could jump so high.)

If tag holders only came with new clothes I could cope; I don’t buy much clothing. But this pox has infiltrated every sector of industry and commerce. It doesn’t matter if you purchase a hammer, an outboard motor, a dozen pencils or a Nike missile, that stupid plastic thread comes with the deal.

Even once-worn clothing isn’t spared. If you’ve sent anything to a commercial laundry recently, you know what I mean.

These days, the people at laundries don’t identify your clothing with a marking pen or colored safety pin. They use those cussed plastic ribbons, meaning you can be subjected to fits of rage on a weekly basis.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t keep from dropping one of the ends when I remove them from freshly laundered shirts. Hours or days later, I discover it inside my shoes, buried in the sheets, or on top of my dresser. I’m starting to think the evil things are breeding—you know, like one-of-a-pair socks that show up in the washing machine.

I was walking downtown the other day when I discovered their latest hiding place. At the moment of this revelation, however, I wasn’t thinking great thoughts of discovery. I was thinking I had just been bitten on the buns by a poisonous spider.

A subtle “yeee-iiii!” issued from my lips as I sprang two stories into the air.

Falling back to the pavement, I limped to the office, confident I had been maimed for life. I dragged myself into the men’s room and made a hasty inspection. (In a stall, of course. Even when a venomous spider has just sunk its four-inch fangs into one’s flesh, one should have the decency to survey the damage behind closed doors.)

To my great surprise and relief, there was no spider in my undies. There was, however, a piece of laundry tag holder. Apparently it had fallen from my starched shirt that morning and stowed away for several hours. Then it jabbed me in the tush like 40-c.c.s of penicillin.

If the people responsible for visiting these thingamajigs upon society ever run afoul of the law, they’d better hope I’m not sitting on the jury.

Sam Venable is an author, stand-up comedian, and humor columnist for the Knoxville (TN) News Sentinel. He may be reached at mahv@outlook.com.