CreamyGoodness
Well-Known Member
*Warning, the following rant involves references to a 30 something balding mead-maker with a beer gut in his underwear. Reader's discretion is advised. Oh... and I'm taken, ladies*
Years ago, when I was living alone as a bachelor, I hated doing laundry. Hated it. So, on my way home from work, if I knew I had nothing clean in the underwear or hosiery department, I would pick up a pack at the GAP or the Sock Guy on St. Marks or whatever. When I moved in with my now-wife about 4 years ago I counted that I had accumulated no less than 60 pairs of boxer shorts and probably 40 pairs of black socks. White, ribbed, armless T-shirts were also plentiful. We got a little dresser with three drawers just for my underthings. Three drawers for my drawers.
And then some time went by, and I gained a couple pounds. I'm not Eric Cartman, but I got myself a little pasta pouch and got a couple inches on my previously tiny waist.
Folks... my underwear is exploding.
The older pairs have appeared to have gotten BRITTLE, and sudden movements will make them rip not at the seam but BETWEEN seams. I'm no engineer, but I don't think boxers are supposed to rip at the ass-cheek.
Others have made the near useless fly (I have always been a vehement up and over man) into a torture apparatus. Damn things pucker open like a gasping guppy and The Colonel is pushed within micrometers of the interlocking teeth of my zipper. Thats on a cold day. Any mention of Bjork or the ladies Japanese olympic curling team and I'm going to hurt myself.
"Wife-beater Ts?"... falling apart. The material seperates from the reinforced seams and then begins to further deteriorate from there. The wife cant stand this, and she knows I will try to salvage them, so when she passes by she grabs hold of the rip and pulls the entire thing off in two pieces. Not in a sexy way... more like a Hulkamania way.
This is a great capitalistic scam. I am being forced to buy more of this stuff even though I have already bought a plethora a few short years ago. Write your congressperson today, we are being stolen from as a nation.
*sigh* it will pass.
Years ago, when I was living alone as a bachelor, I hated doing laundry. Hated it. So, on my way home from work, if I knew I had nothing clean in the underwear or hosiery department, I would pick up a pack at the GAP or the Sock Guy on St. Marks or whatever. When I moved in with my now-wife about 4 years ago I counted that I had accumulated no less than 60 pairs of boxer shorts and probably 40 pairs of black socks. White, ribbed, armless T-shirts were also plentiful. We got a little dresser with three drawers just for my underthings. Three drawers for my drawers.
And then some time went by, and I gained a couple pounds. I'm not Eric Cartman, but I got myself a little pasta pouch and got a couple inches on my previously tiny waist.
Folks... my underwear is exploding.
The older pairs have appeared to have gotten BRITTLE, and sudden movements will make them rip not at the seam but BETWEEN seams. I'm no engineer, but I don't think boxers are supposed to rip at the ass-cheek.
Others have made the near useless fly (I have always been a vehement up and over man) into a torture apparatus. Damn things pucker open like a gasping guppy and The Colonel is pushed within micrometers of the interlocking teeth of my zipper. Thats on a cold day. Any mention of Bjork or the ladies Japanese olympic curling team and I'm going to hurt myself.
"Wife-beater Ts?"... falling apart. The material seperates from the reinforced seams and then begins to further deteriorate from there. The wife cant stand this, and she knows I will try to salvage them, so when she passes by she grabs hold of the rip and pulls the entire thing off in two pieces. Not in a sexy way... more like a Hulkamania way.
This is a great capitalistic scam. I am being forced to buy more of this stuff even though I have already bought a plethora a few short years ago. Write your congressperson today, we are being stolen from as a nation.
*sigh* it will pass.