For years now, I have preferred to live unconstricted. It’s probably why I had the problems I did. Now, the Boys are riding the swingset just a little too hard, and it has reached a level of discomfort that is annoying, even to a guy who is more-or-less immune to pain.
So I went shopping for underwear today. I got lost in this damned mall, looking for a cool ride, but I couldn’t find any cool men’s underwear. So I went into Nordstroms. And was helped.
By an attractive older woman.
Now, I’ve got nothing against women of the female sex, but this was not the time. She saw me make a bee-line for the nads section and was all over it.
“Can I help you?”
“(Please, for the love of God, dont!) Um, no, I’m just looking…”
“Are you looking for briefs? What size are you?”
“Enormous.”*
“No, your waist. Are you a thrity-four?”
Fuck no! I’ve got a pair of thiry-twos that I can still wear, sort of. I look a little like the Michelin Man when I do wear them, but just wait until that style comes back, man. I’ll be all over it.
“Umm, yeah.”
“Vould you like something in boxers?”
“Umm, no… My doctor says I need ah, more support, you know.”
That was supposed to be the tag-line, you know? This is supposed to be the part where she says, “why don’t you come back to the dressing room and I’ll try these on for you?”
Well, maybe I’m still thinking about Victoria’s, which by the way doesn’t sell men’s underwear, but it’s still well worth inquiring about. Anyway, she saw straight through that.
“Oh, you vant these,” leading me around to the next aislet.
The tighty whities.
Dude, I once saw Flea play a show in his tighty whities. You know what? He looked like a fucking dork.
If I gotta wear underwear, I’m gonna look like the goddamned Flash, maybe with flames running down the sides and shit, or racing stripes, or even fucking Mickey Mouse. My shit is the shit! And it’s been through a lot, so it needs some pampering. If my shit is going to jail, it needs a prison cell like Pablo Escobar had.
They got the Tijuana holding cell.
But is was either the tighty whities at fifteen bucks for three, or one Israeli motherfucker for thirty-two bucks. Hey, I gotta wash these fucking things once in a while now, too, and I’m unemployed. I went for the Nordstrom Fruit-of-the-Loom clones.
So here I am, in my Hef bathrobe and with a beer in my hand, and a pair of fucking tighty whities. All hail my coolness.
Fuck these things. I hate all underclothing, unless I can eat it, but this shit takes the inedible cake. There is nothing sexy at all about these fucking things. It’s like wearing tube socks to the Prom. Its Thorazine for your package.
I vow this now before all of you. I shall attain a level of wealth and success which will allow my genitals to be clothed in the finest garb. It is my new goal in life, and a worthy one. It will be the beacon that shines before me on the pathway to riches.
Thank you for your time.
*No, I didn’t actually say that, but I wish I had.