Everyday Fun In My Underwear

To ye who have landed here, either intentionally or accidentally, to read the irrational, you really should update your GPS to avoid such places, but please keep reading.

Guilt - Stank & TiborAs my left arm heals slowly from the flu shot I received, with that oh-so lingering ache as a sign that medical science might prolong my life, I vaguely recall the needle puncturing the skin and then the muscle with what I hope will defend me against the tide of ever evolving strains of the flu. I thought to myself (as opposed to out loud as my doctor has recommended), is there a better way to ensure I have a strong immune system and prevent illness? As that warm, 2-second injection of liquid into my body took place, I winced and was happy it was over.

The Best Defense – Poison

But I still hadn’t devised a new way to keep my defenses up that doesn’t involve shots, sprays, exercise or pills.  However, I may have unintentionally been taking the Rasputin route, with an Asian twist, building up my immunity through exposure to poison.

Having eaten at many a Chinese food restaurant in my life, and never having gotten very violently ill from ingesting unidentifiable meats in batter or peanut sauce at places that didn’t have sanitation or hygiene in their top 10 priorities, I like to think I have inoculated myself to some degree against some forms of salmonella or other food-borne sicknesses.

In fact, one of my friends stated unequivocally that these acts of bravery simply called “eating Dim Sum” have gone some way to making sure that when the next bio-terror attack comes my way my immune system will say “hey, that looks like the bacteriophage we saw after he went for the Lucky Dragon $8 lunch special. No biggie.”

And Fiber Made It Good

I took the additional healthy step to try to eat more fiber in all its forms (fruit, veggies, meats, cake, beer, and maybe some pizza). This is in an effort to balance the bad stuff I ingest, and as fiber is wont to do, help it exit my digestive system more easily. I even took a risk and bought these fruit bars, no nuts, no chocolate, no granola. Just fruit. Granted, one box of bars has the equivalent of a football field’s worth of processed sugar cane in it, but if it didn’t, I can’t imagine why anyone in the Western Hemisphere would eat them.

Furthermore, I can’t figure out why the producers of these bars have to give the flavors stupid names, like Wildberry. What is that? Are these berries that are ADHD and can’t sit down when in class? What makes them so wild? Bad parenting that led to them getting tattoos or something? Should they have been sent to military school for ‘re-education’? Are they the berries that broke free from the conveyor belt at the food processing plant, as they feared a life as a sugary concentrate that would be shipped to Costco outlets across the country? Did these wildberries roll madly for freedom across the filthy factory floor, but were scooped up at the last second by the minimum wage labor from Mexico only to be put back into the concoction that is my fruit fiber bar? Whatever, they are tasty.

Success Leads To Upset

So far my plan has worked as my toilet time is less fraught than it used to be. Which has given me time to focus on other things, such as the label on the back of my underwear. (I know, you were thinking I would say something like giving my time to charity, or digging a well in Africa to hide the bodies.)

Everyday Fun In My Underwear
Click to enlarge (if you dare)

It seems someone in the marketing department had a brainstorm of an idea after consuming no doubt some heroin and a vodka chaser, and decided to put a marketing slogan on the underwear label that reads “Everyday Fun.” (I noticed this piece of ‘guerrilla marketing’ as I pondered the beautifully laid tiles and grouting  work on the floor while on the toilet as there was no reading material afoot, not even my iPhone.) I don’t know about you, but the last time I had ‘everyday fun’ in my underwear was probably when I was 13 and grabbing at myself all the time and I didn’t stop until I turned 16 when I went on a date with a live girl who frowned on that kind of  behavior in the movie theater.

But really, who thought of everyday fun and underwear? Men’s underwear isn’t usually a fun subject. It’s utilitarian and practical. Men don’t often put ‘fun’ and ‘underwear’ in the same sentence unless said under-briefs are a) edible, and b) the male’s partner in events of a copulatory nature is open to experimentation and quirky tastes.

To be even more blunt, what goes on in men’s underwear every day is more like a small scale war in the Middle East, what with all the gas-passing and fart bombs being dropped. Not to mention the stains a.k.a. “racing stripes” that require industrial strength detergents, ancient spells and dark potions to remove the soiling. So how did everyday fun get into this, I’d like to know?

I’ll bet if you interviewed any pair of men’s underwear on any given day you’d hear things like “It was horrible. He went jogging in the summer heat, no talcum powder, hadn’t showered that morning either. And he sweats — everywhere! Then when he stopped, and I hung there, praying the end would come soon and he’d toss me in the washing machine, he sat on a park bench, crossed his legs and squished me against his privates. The horror, the horror…” (Cue sound of uncontrollable sobbing, and then a shotgun blast as the camera fades to black)

So, the lesson here is to be careful when and how you eat fiber, treat your underwear nicely because it ain’t fun and games down there, and if you do eat lunch at the Chinese restaurants I do, bring penicillin or close your eyes tightly if you ever walk through the kitchen. You’ll wish you didn’t.

Stylishly direct, fashionably blunt, and always yours,

Coco Chanel Druker IV

 

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