Underpants On The Outside

I’ve done my share of illegal narcotics (Mom, you should probably just skip this one). I’ve spent a night in absolute terror because mushrooms made me think my best friend was the devil, based on the fact that his teeth are jacked up and every time he smiled he looked positively terrifying. (Of course, he thought it was funny that I was pointing at him and calling him the devil, so the problem perpetuated itself a bit.) I’ve spent hours watching lint under a couch, then gone off to write the greatest poem mankind has ever produced, though the next morning there was only one semi-legible word and I’m pretty sure it was ‘cat’.

I don’t say that to brag or anything; I just want to establish that I am familiar with the sense of exhaustion that comes from a night or four of being propped up by exotic chemicals while you fail to find the words to describe the boundless love you have for your friends, loved ones, and gummi worms. I just never expected to wake up with that empty paper bag feeling after a weekend of Magic: The Gathering.

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A link to a “Ask Yahoo” article appeared on my gmail yesterday morning, with the title, “Is the postmaster general really a general?”  I immediately clicked through, because these things are always amusing, particularly when they start off on such a stupid foot.  I was not disappointed.  (I don’t want to steal their content, so go read it if you want to know what I’m talking about.)

First of all, I love the faux-casual tone Yahoo answers with (I highlighted the text):  “The postmaster general (PMG) has one of the coolest job titles in the United States government… you need a shrewd business sense to compete with UPS, FedEx, and, of course, that darn Internet… The current postmaster general is a fella named Jack Potter.”  Oh, Yahoo, you dialectic scamp!  It’s damn near impossible to understand you through all that down-home country slang!

Now what if I was working at Yahoo when Frank from New Orleans wrote in his question (and I didn’t care about my job)?  Let’s find out.  For the sake of comparability, I will also write my answer in an informal, conversational tone.

What’s up, Frankie!

Whoooooooooa Nellie, that’s one hounddog of a question!  Now here’s your answer: hell, yeah, the Postmaster General’s a general!  And if he hears you ever questioning his authority, he’s gonna order a ‘code red’ on your ass.  Also, you’d better not think that this is a job that just anybody can do.  You have to earn that bad-ass title.  The dude in office now, Jack “Don’t Call Me Harry” Potter, earned two degrees before he enlisted in the Post Guard and worked his way through the ranks to be the Big Cheese.

He is a prominent member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, along with the Surgeon General and the General Manager of the Yankees.  In fact, most people don’t know that their mailmen are colonels – you should be saluting them.  They are fighting a war – a war against people like you and me, who choose to use these newfangled “internets” rather than pencil and paper like proper Americans.   ”Snail mail” wasn’t too slow for ol’ Ben Franklin, the first Postmaster General.  He killed the King of England with his bare hands so that you and I could have the right to send mail.  To support his recent efforts, the Postmaster General was granted the power to raise the price of stamps as part of the Patriot Act.  (Now, that’s what I call a Stamp Tax!  Know what I’m sayin’? ….Frank?)

K.I.T., B.F.F.!

-Y!

I almost called this post, “Ask a Stupid Question, Get a Stupid (for different reasons) Answer”.  Oh, and when it comes to the coolest job title in the U.S. Govt., I’m going to go with “Majority Whip.”  Most offensive sounding:  “Minority Whip”.

I’ve been on a health kick lately.  While dying later would be sweet, it’s really more of an added bonus; Wonder Woman has seemed a bit too comfortable lately – I need her to think I have options. 

Not only am I taking my blowjobs sans grilled cheese sandwich, I’m trying to eat better across the board.  This weekend I was grocery shopping with WW and I saw a box of reduced-sugar Frosted Flakes.  With only 33% less sugar, I figured they’d still taste delicious - I would just go without the bowlful of milk-flavored soda pop at the end of my meal.   I’m willing to make sacrifices for the greater good.

You know in movies how anytime a criminal hands over a suitcase full of cash, it’s a couple hundreds on top of big stacks of paper?  That’s what Low-Sugar Frosted Flakes are: a couple of Frosted Flakes on a big stack of Corn Flakes.  It’s not that I don’t like Corn Flakes, but it’s important to manage one’s expectations and whenever I see Tony the Tiger I anticipate some guilty pleasure in my near future.  (Same thing for Shannon Tweed.)  I don’t like to start my morning with a double-cross.

Now I’m trying to decide if they should be called A Cereal-us Mistake or Frosted Flakes for Roosters.

The first name probably makes sense if you enjoy awful puns.  (And if you do, and have breasts, please contact me at zach@underpantsontheoutside.com.  Remember, I work out.)   As for the second, these Not-So Frosted Flakes remind me of Jews for Jesus.  They start out as Frosted Flakes, but their personal preference is to be Corn Flakes.  Hey, no problem, you are who you are.  But you don’t get to be in the blue box with a tiger on it.  I know, sometimes the blue box seems cool – after all, we get to watch Woody Allen movies – but you belong in the white box with the rooster.  That’s how it works.  Names are important: a tostada full of ground beef, refried beans, rice, cheese and sour cream doesn’t become healthy because you call it a taco salad.

Fuck.  Now the next time I open my pantry my breakfast is going to try and hand me pamphlets.