Underpants On The Outside

Now that she is done with the bar, Wonder Woman: Fun Edition is taking your humble narrator on a week-long Bahamanian vacation starting tomorrow.  Yes, that’s right.  I said ‘taking me’, thanks to her reckless spending habits and the frequent flier miles they rack up.  For the next several days, my biggest concern is going to be sand in my condom.  (BTW, if anybody’s got some tips for how to avoid that, I’m all ears…and a penis.) 

Some of you may be wondering, “Why do you get a vacation?  You didn’t do dick!”  To which I would reply, “Didn’t I?” (I would also raise one eyebrow, probably the left one.)  After all, didn’t I have to deal with a girlfriend who cried all the time, flew off the handle at the slightest provocation, and most heinous of all, stopped sleeping with me???

The answer is actually no: I didn’t have to deal with any of those things.  WW did an amazing job of maintaining her cool over the last few months.  Still, I’ve had to live under a constant threat of “crazy-ass girlfriend” like a Bengal tiger lurking outside by bedroom.  It could be argued that I need this vacation even more than she does.  I’m not going to argue that because I’m going to be sitting next to her on a plane for several hours, but it could be argued.

I don’t plan on doing much over the next few days except lying out in the sun and probably burning my significantly large forehead, but I’m taking my computer (nnnnnnnNNNNNNNERD!) and I’ll try and post a couple times.  And sometime between all the humping and drinking blended beverages on the beach, I’ll miss you guys.

As I write this Wonder Woman is sitting for the New York State Bar exam. She’s pretty popular around The Underpants (if you catch my drift!), so if the six of you reading this could send some good vibes her way for the next two days, it’d be much appreciated. She worked very hard to prepare for this, especially if you factor in all the times she had to turn down persistent hump requests in the form of, “Babe? Study Break? …Babe?” (While poking her.)

Good luck, WW.

Thank God for insufferable heat and my cable being broken.

On Saturday, I invited my friend Sarah to Brooklyn to hang out, enticing her with an offer of my delicious rainbow sherbet margueritas (patent pending).  I was actually low on tequila, but when it came to lies my pantry was very well stocked.  There was nothing to do at my house, but we couldn’t go out because New York had some apocalypse-caliber thunderstorms.  (Normally I pride myself on my superior electrical conductivity, but every once in a while it means I have to spend an evening indoors.)

On top of that, my cable crapped the bed about a week ago.  Only the major networks come in clearly, and since my two favorite shows right now are Project Runway and So You Think You Can Dance, you can imagine how bad the summer schedules are.  It makes me wish I knew how to read. 

I knew all this ahead of time, of course; I also knew that with nowhere to go and nothing to watch, there was only so long we’d be able to talk to each other without looking for some game to play.  (Actual time: fifteen minutes.) And as it turns out I’ve been playing an awesome game lately.*

So Sarah learned to play Magic.  And then she beat me.  Twice.

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Those of you who don’t live in New York wouldn’t know this, but last night the weather reached an approximate temperature of “hot as shit” (Celsius).  Last night was particularly bad because at about 3:30 AM my fan started rattling.  It was too hot to sleep without the fan, but the rattling was too intermittent to fade into the background.  Y’know, like Chinese Water Torture.  I eventually fell asleep, but spent the rest of the night dreaming I was trapped in a Xerox machine.

Well, according to this article I’d have a better apartment if only I was a polar bear.

After a midday feeding, the 19-year-old bears, both decked out in their slightly thinner but no less luxurious summer coats, slipped into an air-conditioned four-den room that the zoo maintains at about 60 degrees.

As far as what I’m decked out in, I’ve taken a clipper to every hair on my body more than an inch long.  Every. Single. One.

Gus, who about a decade ago had his keepers worried about his compulsive swimming and needed special intervention to help him become focused on other pastimes, spent much of yesterday swimming around the 90,000-gallon pool.  In the heat, it seemed the only sensible thing for a 926-pound bear to do.

“Other pastimes?”  Like what, Little League?  His homework?  Other than swimming, sleeping and some penguin hunting, what does a polar bear do?  Also, my bathtub’s capacity is ten gallons of water and about a pound of my roommates’ hair.

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While most of my Brooklyn friends spent the weekend at barbeques, drinking beer and commenting on their inner thigh sweat, one of my female friends was learning how to use a strap-on from a class.  Apparently she has decided to take up lesbianology, God bless her, and understandably she doesn’t want to be all amateur-hour when she comes face-to-crotch with her very first (someone else’s) vagina.

I applaud the effort, but frankly, I’m more curious to find out how someone comes up with an hour and a half lecture on how to use a strap-on.  Are there any other products where the title is the instruction manual?  It’s like if we started calling forks “stab-and-eats”.  

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Not too long ago, I put up a post about James Bond.  After reading my first Bond book, I was surprised when he wasn’t exactly the Lothario I had been led to believe he was.  In fact, when I picked up my next 007 book, Live and Let Die, I was dying to see what could possibly follow “the sweet tang of rape.” 

Unfortunately, the woman in Live and Let Die actually wants to sleep with him.  She wants to sleep with him from the very moment she sees him, despite the fact that she has refused every other man for her entire life.  Apparently she’s already had a glass of Bond’s special “Statutory Kool-Aid.”

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For how many days is it okay to giggle when you remember hearing your roommate yell, ”That stupid mosquito came right in my face!”?

I’m on three with no sign of stopping.

Update: make that four days.

That’s right, bask in the wonder that is the new Underpants on the Outside. It is purely coincidental that it looks just like that other amazingly funny site, Superhero Diaries.

For serious though, this re-design would have taken any web designer with a full set of chromasomes maybe two days. It took me a month. If my posts have seemed rushed lately (when I’ve been doing them at all) it’s because the hamster in my head has been working overtime on this baby, but that’s because in life and online, I’m all about looking GOOD.

And when I think about it, it’s not as if I’ve spent my time gift-wrapping a turd. Underpants on the Outside isn’t bad, it’s just that no one reads it. So it’s more like I’ve spent my time painting the underside of a rock. Still, I think you’ll agree this is one fine rock I’ve got here.

I read an interesting article today about how to train your spouse using the same techniques animal trainers use to teach dolphins to steal your wallet. The article was written by a woman, who used her ultimate power to train her husband not to get angry when he loses his keys, which is about as useful as a left-footed dog. Oh wait, she also trained him not to stand around the kitchen while she’s cooking. First of all, if he’s anything like me, he’s standing there ‘cause she’s doing it wrong. Second of all, she obviously hadn’t tried brandishing a knife and asking, “do you want to get the hell out of the kitchen?” Remember: the only reason negative reinforcement doesn’t work on dogs is because they don’t speak English.

I read the article with the distinct impression that if I’m going to invest that much time, I’d rather have a baboon that knows how to make a Manhattan. But that got me thinking about Wonder Woman’s behaviors, and which ones I’d like to enhance, and which I’d like to train out of her. Sure, the obvious ones come to mind, such as a “blowjob” command and a “dishes” command and a “get the hell off my side of the bed; your ass is like a hotplate” command, but I like to think I’m more creative than Archie Bunker.

So here are four scenes to demonstrate how I will use these techniques in my relationship.

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