If you or a loved one has been affected by ripped jeans, please dial our toll-free hotline at 1-800-NO-HOLES today. Read these testimonials and decide if you are eligible for a pair of knee patches and up to $3 million in financial compensation.
There I was, running away from the cops, having just committed some relatively unspeakable crimes, but even I didn’t deserve the misfortune that was about to befall me. All of a sudden, my legs give in, and as soon as I hit the ground my little, uncovered knees get horrendously scraped up by the rough asphalt of an Arby's parking lot. There’s a decent chance they’re infected now, not to mention the danger of the alcohol swab the cops put on me. Had I not been wearing ripped jeans I would have gotten away scot-free. (Jerry, an 8-year-old from Florida) It started off as some playful kiddin’ around with my girlfriend. Just some light punching, ramming each other into cars, knocking some toddlers over. But then she shoved me. My world was shattered along with my foundation of trust as I lay sprawled on the ground. My little knees bled, and bled, and bled as she walked away without me. Damn you, ripped jeans! (Sam, a 64-year-old from Oregon) It was just like any other evening, I was climbing under the turnstile like a rad individual when I felt a burn in the mid-leg area. My vision blurred from the pain as I looked down to see the skin scraped from my knee. It was sickening. I crawled to the train platform, and as I pushed myself down those stairs, my ripped jeans exposed my wound. Luckily enough, I found someone’s crutches to steal, but I must remember that not everyone is as fortunate. (Hubert, a 19-year-old from Queens) I was sliding across the floor on my knees in one of those epic victory dances that one does when they deem appropriate when I noticed a trail of blood behind me. It wasn’t mine, it was the blood of the people I had barreled through. But my poor weak knees burned for a few days after that. (Chadley, a 21-year-old from Coolsville) No lie, since putting these on, I’ve heard thirty-seven times, “What happened to your little knees? Aren’t they cold? Were they half-off? Did a wolf mug you? Did you lose your job and need to sell part of your jeans?” (Brenda, a 26-year-old from a Nondescript Department Store)