It’s already fucking designed, as described in fucking US patent 05375266: Composite drawcord/elastic waistband.
Figure 5. shows that they using a fucking loop of cord instead of a cord with two ends, so there’s no fucking way it can get lost.
Since there’s six fucking patents that reference US5372566, it must be a pretty fucking good idea. Maybe you can fucking ask Crisco; J. Keith, the inventor, where you can get a pair of his fucking high-tech sweatpants.
Arjuna34
I was just wondering, in light of the vocabulary being used here, if this is a biblical “know”?
The fuckwits at Delphion don’t fucking let you link directly to fucking patents, so you’ll have to go to Delphion and cut and paste 5375266 in the Quick Search box to fucking see these sweat-fuckin-tacular pants. Your on your fucking own getting to the all-fucking-revealing Figure Fucking Five.
Arjuna34
Lynn:
Nor is it my job to go looking for some fucking mothball smelling fabric store, probably filled with cats and people with blue hair to by an option package for my sweatpants that should have come as standard equiptment.
It is a large enough design defect that it should be addressed by the fucking manufacturer.
I mean what if after you drove your car once the engine fell out?
Should you have to go to the mechanic and buy new parts to stop your engine from falling apart or Should G fucking M manufacture a prodect that works?
Why should I accept such a basic flaw in my sweatpants?
::urgent message from back of Scylla’s mind. Text folows::
What are you doing? They’re just sweatpants. Go drink a beer.
::End of message::
Oh sure, Mr. Reasonable Scylla. Fuck you! I want some fucking sweatpants that work. I do not want to alter them, or have to worry about it. I want to buy them and I want them to work.
All my life I worry about the fucking strings that this world offers. If it’s not the strings on sweatpants, it’s those other strings (don’t look at me like that. You know what I’m talking about)
You turn your key in the lock, and the cheap metal snaps.
You open the bag of Doritos, and instead on neatly coming apart at the seam, the bak rips apart and now there’s Doritos everywhere.
You open a beer and the pull tab just snaps off leaving the beer sealed forever.
The windows get stuck.
Every year your lawnmower belt snaps.
Your car clocks don’t work.
Your toaster only lasts a month.
You can’t refill a Bick lighter, but at some point they filled it didn’t they? They worked extra to make it a one shot deal.
You open up the chewy chocolate chip cookie package and half an hour later they’re all stale.
It’s not the string. It’s the fucking string, man.
The string
Frito:
I already addressed your fucking question. Read the fucking thread.
dropzone:
Maybe you walk around with a fucking crochet hook all the time. I don’t.
Arjuna34:
About fucking time! That’s what I want. Walfuckmart, Kfuckmart, or any of these other ducking stores stock these superior sweatpants?
I’ll tell you. Because they make more fucking money by making me come back and buy a new pair.
It’s designed fucking obsolescence. A deliberately fucking flawed product.
It’s the fact that they keep making keyboards smaller and smaller, like they’re for the fucking Little People or something, and your fat fingers mash 3 or 4 fucking keys at a time, and your posts come out all crappy and full of misspellings becuase if Kenneth fucking Cole can’t bother to put a string on his big shit designer sweatpants that downs’t fall out, then why the fuck should I bother to preview my fucking posts?
It’s all bullshit.
Fucking conspiracy.
I’m too fucking smart for those fuckers, though. I fucking make my fucking pants out of a fucking brown fucking paper fucking bag from the fucking fuckery store.
Fuck yeah, I get some fucking stares, but those fuckheaded fuckfaces just don’t fucking understand the fucking brilliance of fucking beating the fucking conspirators in the fucking disposable fucking clothes fucking game.
Fucking A, but ‘fucking’ starts to look fucking funny after fucking typing it fucking twenty-fucking-nine fucking times.
LNO
Which is actually the only fucking point of this whole thread.
Hey, don’t mean to intrude, but I just had to make one comment.
Scylla? Are you sure your balls are that important? 
Okay. Now we’re getting really self-pitying here.
I can guaranfuckingtee you that if I really wanted a beer, I would not a let a defective pull tab keep me from getting the can open. And neither would you.
Let’s back up the reality train. When a red-blooded sweatpant-wearing American man considers a beer permanently sealed when the tab snaps off… well, now I know you’re really beaten down by this string problem. Here, I’ll send you my sweatpants. I can’t bear to see you this way… begins to remove her baggy, faded, pouched-at-the-knee elastic-sprung Hanes Her Way shitty-ass sweatpants They’re black, does that work with your wardrobe color scheme? Or at least, they were from 1990-1994.
Christ, the things I do for this board.
I buy my fucking sweatpants with no fucking string… I find the fuckers with the damn elastic waist-fucking-band in my fucking size so I don’t have to fucking worry about the fucking string. Is that too fucking hard or is it not a fucking option? If so, buy some new fucking sweatpants, pull the fuckers on, and before tightening the fucking string, tie some fucking knots by the fucking holes so they can’t fucking fit back in the fucking hole while at the same fucking time, leaving you enough fucking string to tie the fuckers to your fucking waist so they don’t fucking fall the fuck down exposing your fucking fuck tools to the fucking world. Also keeps you really fucking happy the next fucking time you do your fucking laundry.
If that STILL doesn’t fucking work, don’t wash the fuckers. Wear the fuck out of them and just replace the fuckers when they get fucking funky. You’ll fucking still save in the fucking long run.
You’d think that those bastards over in them sweatshops would have learned to reverse engineer fucking knots by now, wouldn’t you?
Oh. My. Fucking. God. I’m fucking dyin’ here. I can’t hardly breathe.
This has to be the first fucking time in fucking history that anyone has used the fucking phrase “fucking crochet hook”.
Cordlocks. That’s what Lynn’s describing I bet; little plastic spring-loaded cordlocks. You’re too fucking macho to go to a fabric store, you can buy them in a fucking mountaineering store.
And I understand that this is a symbolic, big world issue, not solved by purchasing cordlocks. But I just want to tell you that I worked in a store that sold sweatpants with cordlocks already on them fifteen years ago, so this isn’t a problem for everyone. Unless you insist on not paying more than ten fucking dollars for sweatpants.
Jesus Fucking Christ (Try and fucking picture THAT some fucking time, why the fuck doncha?) what the fucking fuck do you fucking expect? Do you know how fucking hard it is to get those fucking little Philipino babies to work the fucking sewing machines and you fucking want them to put some fucking thing on there to keep that fucking string from fucking disappearing on your fucking ass? What kind of fucking shit are you fucking smoking man? The simple fucking fact is that if they fucking had those little fucking Philipino babies put some fucking thing on those fucking pants to keep that fucking string from fucking disappearing on your fucking ass they’d get fewer fucking pants out of those fucking babies and that fucking means they’d have to hire more of those fucking little babies and have to pay them like fucking .0002 fucking cents a fucking hour! You know this fucking thing is getting fucking repetative? But what the fuck, man? Are you fucking telling me you want those fucking little babies to work fucking harder just so you can keep your fat fucking pants up around your fat fucking American ass? Have some fucking sympathy dude!
So I wake up this morning. I come downstairs and throw away six beer cans.
“Boy” I think. “That stuff really went to my head. I guess I need to be more careful about running and drinking.”
…And then I see this thread.
Really. It’s a new day. My sweatpants don’t matter.
<sigh> People, people, people,
Have we learned nothing?
There are times when you’re supposed to try and help someone fix a problem, and there are times when all you’re supposed to do is make sympathetic noises and listen.
When I read this yesterday, before anybody else had posted a reply I went and found a link for cordlocks and completed a nice reply when before I even hit preview I realized.
Scylla’s an incredibly smart person, he could figure this out if he wanted to. He just needed to rant.
Though I really must say… you folks made an incredibly humorous thread that none the less really had good intelligent suggestions in it… Now how often does it happen that this many instances of the word Fuck appeared in a thread where neither anger, nor lust was being displayed?
-Doug
Alright. This fuckery has continued well past its due date.
Scylla! Listen up. You’ve endowed me with a great deal of brilliance since my arrival here. I’m glowing with pride at offering my little brainnugget of glowing advice. This is complex, though. Grab a 6-pack, preferably something over 5.5% content. I recommended Molson Ultra, but you can pick your poison.
Drink a couple beers. Just to lube up the old brain; don’t want to see the oil light go on once we’re heavy into the mechanics of this. Get a lawn chair, and take it into the laundry room. (You may need to adlib if you use a laundromat). Line up the troopers on the washer for easy access in case you get thirsty.
Remove the sweatpants. If in laundromat, leer as much as possible. Lewd eyebrow gestures are also recommended… there’s a reason they get bushier as you get older!
You may have sweated during the removal of the sweatpants; best to replenish your fluids. Grab a couple of beers. If anyone asks about your rabid alcohol consumption in public, tell them that attitudes are contagious, and they might catch a fatal case of your attitude in a minute.
Gather 2 safety pins. If you didn’t bring them to the laundry room, go get them. While you’re upstairs poking around in the junk drawer in the kitchen (don’t lie… you have one too), grab a couple more beers. Can’t be too careful.
Back to laundry room; hope you had a beer on the road. Here’s the complex part: Put the safety pin on just before you wash the pants! One per side. Don’t bother putting it on the end of the string; there’s too high a chance it’ll just rip its way into the hole for the string… put the pin through the waistband and into the string. More leverage.
Shotgun the remaining beer as a ‘victory dance’
No chance of being caught wandering into an artsy store, no need to pull out your hair in a fit of anger. A beautiful thing.
I’ve tried this, btw… and it works. I don’t wear jogging pants, though, so I didn’t actually pin anything. Or go to the laundry room, or wash anything. But the beers work great. And I guarantee that this will NEVER seem like too much ‘work’ just to not lose your jogging pants string.
You the man, Scylla! Just remember to remove the pins after you wash the pants… your point about not having sharp objects near ‘The Boys’ goes without saying. Cordlockers indeed… pfft.
FD.