Underpants On The Outside

The Big Bang Theory

Two quantum physicists try and have sex with their smoking-hot neighbor.  First of all, Kudos to CBS for finally listening to those legions of fans clamoring for content about the riveting, laugh-a-minute lives of quantum physicists.  (Anyone who has ever heard Stephen Hawking tell “The Aristocrats” knows what I’m talking about.)  In an average sit-com, the “Hot Chick Next Door” scenario would be a single episode, but I’m sure the writing staff will have no problem stretching that one flimsy premise into a TV franchise to rival Cheers.  Just imagine the comedic gold as the lady fends off the geeks’ awkward advances while flirting just enough so they’ll rip her CD collection onto her new iPod.  Then tune-in next week, when she fends off the geeks’ awkward advances while flirting just enough so they’ll hook up her digital camera and upload her vacation photos from Cancun.  It’s like a Madlib of hilarity, and best of all, the title says “Bang.”

Read more…

The three of you who tried to go on the Underpants today may have been surprised at the “Account Suspended” Page.  What??? The Underpants has bad credit???  (I bet Wonder Woman had a particularly intense moment of panic wondering if next month’s rent check was going to clear.  Your guess is as good as mine.) 

Well, to paraphrase Chris Rock, I take care of my kids.  What I don’t do is read my emails.  If I had, I might have found out earlier that my host company erroneously filled out the invoice and billed me back in nineteen SIXTY NINE.  Fittingly, I wasn’t able to pay, seeing as how I was ten years from being a zygote.

It’s all cleared up now, and my host company has been made aware that it is not 1969.  Let no man say that the Underpants is not a well-oiled machine.

From September 5-12, New York City housed unusually high numbers of emaciated Amazons, sexually ambivalent people and Europeans who go by one name. That’s right – it’s Fashion Week! While we may not have the best sense of style over here at the Underpants (all denim, all the time) looking at all the stupid outfits reminded us that we do know a bit about pointing and laughing. Below, we highlight a few styles that really put the “ass” in fashion. (That was our best attempt at one of those catty remarks the Queer Eye guys always make. It only highlights our shortcomings in both spelling and pronunciation.)

Well, well, well, if it isn’t Lord Weenie von Sissyington. I am really hoping this style comes back, if only because I’d look like Suge Knight standing next to this guy. Someone please inform Mr. Peanut that he’s a fashion icon.

Read more…

Having a bit of a paunch, I am repeatedly torn between my desires for candy (constant – hence the belly) and my fear of becoming rotund (crippling - can only be cured by eating.)   I WANT a Snickers bar, but I can’t help but imagine the day when I need a scooter to drive me the last ten feet to my in-house breakfast buffet where I eat Lucky Charms from a chocolate bowl using a spoon made of Slim Jims.  Usually I let a coin flip decide; that way if I’m fat, it’s George Washington’s fault.

Well, the other day I couldn’t find a quarter.  Racked with indecision, I wished for a healthy solution.  Then I started thinking of ideas for nutritious candy bars and a couple made me giggle.  A half hour later this is what I had come up with:

• Lik-M-Aid: Aspartame Edition
• JicaMars Bars
• Splenda Daddys
• Okra Henry!
• Mr. Goodprostate (Bran with chickpeas)
• Stalky Way (Take Milky Way Bar; remove nougat; replace with celery)

Now accepting submissions.  Winner receives a promise of a mediocre gift that will go unfulfilled.  (There’s still time to get those Fantasy Team names in, people!  So far I’m sticking with Erogenous Zone Celebrations, but something involving merkins has potential…)

As you might know, this weekend was the start of the football season, which more importantly marks the third year of me playing in a fantasy football league.  For some reason this makes me happy, even though I’ve essentially opted to spend 17 weeks at elevated levels of anxiety and profanity.  (Not just Sundays; being neurotic is a full-time job.)

Unfortunately, as I spent the week before last alternately catatonic and mesmerized by flames and breasts, and last week in flame/breast withdrawal, I have neglected perhaps the most important aspect of Fantasy Football: The Team Name. 

A fantasy team name is its owner’s last chance at pretending this is a frivolous hobby, and that he’s not praying for scores of crippling (or fatal; that’d be cool too…) knee injuries that would allow him to win a couple hundred bucks off of his friends and co-workers.  In general, people’s personalities tend to come out in their team names (I’ll use some examples from this year’s league).   For instance, people who enjoy pop culture will utilize references (Spider Pig, Blackbeard’s Delight, Them Apples).  Other people team’s reflect their daily lives, whether it’s their favorite brand of smokes (Winston Lites), stuff they find awesome (Ninja Wizards), or how they’ve thought of themselves ever since 1990, after listening to a lot of Bel Biv Devoe (Tre Niceness).     Then some people seem to have just asked a random seven-year old what name they might find intimidating (Lethal Weapons).  Personally, I think kudos go to Roommate Mary, with “Mo’ Touchdowns, Mo’ Problems”.

Me, I just want my team name to be funny.  I also want to be able to shout it in a crowded sports bar, unlike two years ago, when my team name was The Sodomy All-Stars. 

Last year my team name was Unconventional Foreplay.  I think that was better; more in-line with my sexually self-deprecating and nonsensical style of humor.   But I think there’s better out there, and while I’ve got some ideas, you guys are the funniest people I know and I’m curious to see what you come up with. 

Ideally I’d like it to be funny, football-related and vaguely offensive, yet encouraging at the same time.  But I’ll settle for funny.   The winner gets their choice of being sent my secret chili recipe (2nd place in our annual chili cook-off, two years running!), or I will send you an one-of-a-kind, autographed (by me) copy of one of Wonder Woman’s law school books that I’ve been asking her to get rid of.

Here are some of my ideas:

• ‘Pants Interference (Not only a football reference, but a vague reference to The Funniest Site on the Internet)
• Illegal Lotion (football reference; vaguely dirty)
• Trouser Candy (Just dirty)
• Pubic Toupee (You can kind of see how I default to pee-pee jokes whenever I’m struggling)
• Erogenous Zone Celebrations
• LoveBagel Incorporated
• Plus-size Diaphragms

A lot of people might think that it’s bad luck to change names not only mid-season, but with tonight’s games still undecided.  But I want my guys going all out tonight, and I think a funny new name is just the thing to light a fire under their asses.  Pants Interference is my favorite, but I’m not wowed.  I’m hoping you guys can knock this out of the park.  And despite the obvious trends in my ideas, it does not have to be related to a person’s naughty areas.  Feel free to tap the offensive potential of Girl Scouts, for instance.

P.S.  While brainstorming, I’ve decided that “Roughing the Passer” will be my masturbatory euphemism for the remainder of the season.

P.P.S.  I figure the title of this post has GOT to be worth a grilled cheese sandwich…

If you’ve been wondering where the Underpants have been all this time, they’ve been on fire.  I went to Burning Man last week, along with Big Brother, OG and Mo (AKA, the Witty Comment All-Stars, minus starting point guard Wonder Woman, who has a thing against a week without showering.)  For those of you who don’t know what Burning Man is, let me try and describe it:

Imagine a small city, 40,000 people large, in the middle of a desert.  Perhaps they’re nomads, judging from the tents, RV’s, and portable domes made from pipes.  They are peaceful and cooperative despite the harsh environment: in-between the 100-degree heat and zero-visibility dust storms, they share their resources and walk around naked, dirty, and unashamed.  (Although they seem to recognize the importance of defending themselves, because in the horizon is what looks like a tremendously large trebuchet constructed out of industrial steel.)

Then the sun goes down, and a whole new crowd comes out.  The guys wear outlandish costumes, and the women have somehow become exponentially sexier by putting ON clothes.  (Tight, shiny articles of clothing that were apparently made during war-time fabric shortages.)

If the daytime atmosphere is peace, generosity, community and environmentalism, at night that sentiment becomes “Fuck that; let’s light shit on fire.”   Anything that can be accessorized by flame is done so.  I saw people with fuel tanks in backpacks and open flame six inches over their heads…bike riding.  I saw a chick with a flame thrower…on stilts.  Dance parties rage all night long as computer-controlled flames blast in intricately timed patterns.  Buses roam the playa; most are randomly armored and feature large propane jets wherever they could be strapped on, but some are more artistic, retrofitted to look like giant animals (with jet-based self-defense mechanisms), or the inside of a boudoir, albeit one that’s very well-lit and would never pass safety inspections.

Oh yeah, and that trebuchet?  It’s throwing cars a couple hundred feet, for the same reason a dog licks its balls.  Because it motherfucking CAN.

It might sound a bit like Mad Max, and it ought to; there’s actually a camp that builds a Thunderdome every year, where people dangle precariously to watch two people in bungee harnesses fight with clubs.  If you’ve ever wanted to see your office’s IT guy get kicked in the face by a chick in a tutu and combat boots, Burning Man is your best opportunity.

For a whole week, you spend each night dancing, you barely eat, and you sleep two or three hours a night because that’s how much time you have between sunrise and the point where it gets so hot that your teeth are sweating.   Yet you keep going, drawing energy from the people around you, the frenetic beat of music, the surreal environment, and the shitload of energy drinks you consume every evening*.   By the end of the week your body, mind and soul are spent, and you’ve probably lost five pounds.  In other words, it’s like a marathon without all the tedious jogging.

All in all, it’s not quite my mom’s worst nightmare, but the only thing that’s missing is a camp where I could run the 200m hurdles with a pair of scissors in each hand.

There are pictures to come and many awesome things to describe.  Perhaps I’ll intersperse upcoming posts with them, but in the meantime, I’ve got some serious business to discuss, and at this point my Burning Man intro is so long I’ll have to put it in a different post entirely.  Expect another post to come post haste.

The Underpants are back, baby!  (and significantly dirtier than when we left)

*It’s possible that just people in relationships need the caffeine - single people could be fueled by the hope of oral sex.  It certainly helps me get through the work day…