Well, Rue, I guess someone ought to clue you into The Great Underpants Problem. Fairy Chat Mom was hinting at it. And the problem is this: size.
See now, we exchange names. I get, say, Smeghead’s name (to provide a visual … you’re welcome). I head out to the JC Penny’s and troll the thong aisle only to be stopped dead at the thought – what SIZE does Smeghead wear?
Stunned into inaction, I return home and contemplate an email, asking for size information. What if he says 52XXXL? Would that be more embarrassing if he said 24XXXXXXS?
To avoid this problem, Rue the Underpants Gnome has all participants send him their sizes. He then distributes. It gets real icky, real fast.
But hey! Maybe that’s the point! But um, you don’t see my thong size in your inbox, do ya?
Okay, Mr. Underpant Elf/Gnome/Wee One/Brownie (whatever), got a convenient excuse I can use with the SO to explain why some strange person is sending me underwear?!
BunnyGirl, you know you want to play. Doncha? Yeah, I thought so. To bad you’re * a big chicken!*
Bwaaak, bwaak, bwaaaaaak!! BunnyGirl’s a big chicken. Ha ha ha ha ha!
Oops, sorry.
I guess this is another example of what I like to think of as my sense of humor not matching up with normal peoples’ (alleged) sense of humor. And I’m being generous here, calling you normal people. (No, I am NOT sulking. Go away!) Maybe it takes more a sense of whimsy. And we all know the world needs more whimsy. Why, just the other day, I heard real people say “You know what this drab old world needs? More whimsy.” At least I think they were people. I heard the voices though. Of that, I’m sure.
Would anyone play if it was the Great Boxershorts Rebelion? No sexy underpants allowed? Just big ol’ baggy boxer shorts.
And who’s going to tell thinksnow he doesn’t get any underpants in the mail? Anyone? You’d have to look into his Bambi eyes as they teared up with dissapointment. Think of thinksnow.
Oh! Here’s a dodge…
The next person to sign up gets automatically assigned thinksnow. (Ya hear that Ginger? You’d have a lock on the thinkster’s underpants. And if we had Ginger’s underpants, wow, things would just take off…)
Maybe this is doomed to be one more Bad Rue Idea…
(sigh)
-Rue. (sigh, again)
Going by the evidence of this thread, I’d say “normal” is anyone who doesn’t want to be mailed underpants.
Bad news… thinksnow’s underpants are now no longer up for grab. So to speak. You can stiil play, but your info goes into the Hopper of Random Underpants.
And you know, I’ve had “underpants” in this thread about, what?, 4000 times? I still get that childish chuckle out of the word.
Underpants. (bwa-ha) See? It still works.
-Rue. (trying to think of a way to get at BunnyGirl’s underpants. For the game, you perv.)
OK, I admit it… I didn’t sign up because I’m pretty much a wuss… and I don’t need to explain to my husband why I’m getting underpants in the mail… and I don’t need a total stranger knowing I wear geriatric unders… and I suspect Rue has a serious underpants fetish and I think that we, as his only friends in the whole, wide world, owe it to him to break the underpants cycle and set him on to the path of a more wholesome hobby…
<note to self - get Rue’s address and send him My Little Needlepoint Kit with the cute puppy dog picture>
So Snickers wants some lace underpants with a needlepoint puppy? Where would the puppy go? The front? The back? Wouldn’t a needlepoint picture cause chafing anyway?
Now I’m confused. Bordering on bewildered. I feel befuddled. Mr. Slappy, nooooooo!!! Not the wrap-around canvas sportscoat with the stylish crotch buckle!!! I’ll be good! I swear!
I’m feeling much better now.
Here’s some virtual underpants for all the chickens out there…
Did you know you could rent a PO box at your friendly neighborhood Post Office? Or even one in someone elses neighborhood for added security? And the nice people at the Post Office, while they do work for The Government aren’t all that snoopish? As long as nothing ticks or makes the sniffer dogs bark.
EII (boxers)
II-- (thong)
I}> (panties)
(virtual underpants are hard)
By the way… The Secret Underpants Gnome Exchange is in full swing. Underpants will be mailed soon! The world is mine!! Bwa-hahahahahaha!!!
You think you have a problem! By sheer coincidence, as I was waiting for my coffee to percolate this morning, my diseased mind invented the following joke:
When are chickens like your underpants?
When they are smelly and full of holes.
Sorry, I think your sense of humo(u)r is pretty normal (and amusing).
I’d participate, but really, I couldn’t bear to tell a stranger how fat my ass really is. Thus, I’ve respectfully and chickenhearedly stayed out of this.
Why is there a five gallon bucket of Bourbon Dogs on the stove? Is there a party? Balloon animals? What?
What the…?
“Underpants Gnome”? What kind of stupidness is that? What? Who? Oh. Ooooohhh… that explains a few things. So do I keep these or what? What? Oh, yeah, thanks Mr. Slappy.
The names are divvied up and sent out. The game is officially over. New, clean underpants should be hitting the mail soon. Two whole pair. Unless someone gets a little crazy. (You know who you are. Or you.)
Does anyone want a e-mail box with an odd name? Hardly used.
Man, did I really…? Yes, Mr. Slappy I think I will lie down for a bit.
-Rue. (who needs a nap)
It seems like the operation may be petering out so if there are any spare ones just lying around, my puppy Jake has informed me that he would really really really like to have some undies. Please? large, small, boxer, brief, stanky stanky is good. Just as long as they’re underwear.
He is quickly working his way through everyone in the entire households undies. He steals them on a moment’s notice and if you don’t catch him they are destroyed just as quickly. Apparently even fresh out of the wash they retain enough stank to intrigue him.
One charming example. I laid out some brand new undies on the bed, set my can of coke on the nightstand and hopped in the shower. When I got out of the shower, the pop was knocked over on the floor and had quite a few bite marks in it, undies were gone and Jake was nowhere to be seen. As I finished getting dressed the doorbell rang. Just as I opened the door for my son’s friend Rick, Jake came around the corner dragging something but what in the hell was it? Of course, they were the missing undies but now they were soaked with a brownish fluid, covered in blood and had about 20 holes in them. It appeared that whatever person had worn those panties last must have had some bad problems, or at least extremely poor hygiene. Jake offered his treasure to Rick but it was declined. I just took them straight to the trash can.
After much forensic investigation, I determined that when Jake jumped up to get the panties, he knocked over the coke which ran all over the floor. He had to drop the panties to drink the coke and to chew on the can. While chewing on the can he cut his mouth on the sharp metal so he went back to chewing on the cool, sweet, wet and coke-a-licious panties which were apparently so tasty he ate a few pieces of it while he was at it.
