Underpants On The Outside

I bought a new TV last week, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. That’s because my new TV is very, very big. The stereotypes are true; I’m a dude, and therefore I wanted as big of a TV as I could possibly fit in my apartment. I was willing to take down a wall or two, if that’s what was needed. But the process wasn’t easy; certainly not for Wonder Woman. One day I guess she’d finally had enough. She turned to me and said, “You just want a bigger TV than M [a friend of mine], don’t you?!? Why? Does that mean that your dick is somehow bigger?” I forgot to mention: we were inside a crowded Circuit City, and Wonder Woman wasn’t so much using her “inside” voice as she was her “inside a KISS concert” voice.

It was a bit embarrassing. She was kind of implying that I might need a bigger dick, which I don’t, unless she’s expecting some kind of vaginal growth spurt. But more than that, it pissed me off because she was assuming the worst about me, that I could be so base and petty. So I explained that a big-ass TV is practical because I’m thinking ahead, to the day when she and I have a family together and move into a bigger place. (I’ve found that when your girlfriend is 30 and unmarried, this rationale can pretty much be used to explain anything. I could probably get away with a pre-marital affair by calling it an “au pair audition.”)

Of course I was lying. If* we get married, have babies and buy a new place together, I’m still going to want a bigger TV. I just didn’t want to discuss my junk in the middle of Circuit City. She had me pegged exactly: having a big ol’ TV makes me feel awesome, probably as much as I would with a twelve inch moose-cock. That’s why I thought that for the rest of this post I would refer to my big-ass TV as “My Dick”.

I love My New Dick. It’s so big I could probably sleep on it if I wanted to. It’s almost seven times as long as my other dick, and don’t get me started on its girth. Yes, I DO love that My Dick is bigger than M’s, but more than that I love the way it ticks him off that mine is bigger. In fact, My Dick is bigger than just about all of my friends’, except for Ex-Roommate Kat and Jackie Treehorn. (Not only is Kat a girl, but they’re both Asian, so I guess the stereotypes aren’t true…) My friend Maverick says his is bigger, but you know how guys talk; he’s going to have to whip it out before I’m convinced.

Admittedly, when My Dick arrived, even I was a little shocked by how big it was. I was worried that it would look awkward, or even worse – that I wouldn’t be able to find someplace to put it! But it didn’t take long before I got into the swing of things, and to her credit, Wonder Woman has been VERY accommodating. She spends more time with her eyes glued to My Dick than ever before, and trust me when I say that she’s found a whole new appreciation for it.

In celebration of My New Dick, I also bought an Xbox 360 along with Halo 3. These shall be known as “My Balls,” because when you pair My New Balls with My New Dick, it is a sight to behold. Even when they’re not doing anything, they look good just sitting there; but when you turn them on, what comes out is truly amazing (though if you’re not ready for it, it can be difficult to take all of it in on your first try.)

Lastly, I don’t know if I’ll ever get over how good attractive women look when I see them on My Dick.

There. That was my best effort at discussing my new television as lewdly as possible. As regular readers might expect, I’m rather proud of myself right now, though I wouldn’t be surprised to come home tomorrow and find Wonder Woman rubbing my new TV down with bleach. I only hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.

*I imagine that people who know us find it cute to see me clinging to the delusions that any other options are still available.

Recently, I signed up for Facebook. Not to talk to my friends, of course; at this point I’m a bit old to use the Intermajig to communicate with my friends. Social networks are great when you want to tell everyone that your house is throwing a kegger, but these days  the biggest news is if one of my friends buys a couch, so it’s really okay if they’d rather just surprise me.

There’s only reason I signed up, and it’s the same reason I log on every day: online Scrabble. But my love for Scrabble goes beyond the pompous intellectual nerd-high I get from knowing that “Qi” is an alternative and acceptable spelling of the word “chi.” I developed my Scrabble soft spot years ago, when I spent a semester abroad in Israel. It was a tough time for me: I don’t speak any Hebrew, I didn’t learn much in my six weeks of language training, and on top of that, I found that Israelis could be a bit abrasive. (Read: they’re kinda pricks. Then again, I would probably be bitter too if we were constantly at war with Mexico while Canada refused to admit that we were even a country.) There’s really only one thing to do in that scenario, and that’s find a group of Americans and drink.

Mostly we sat around drinking shitty wine and frying frozen French Fries in butter, which makes apple pie look about as American as borscht.  (USA! USA!) Then one day (that I don’t remember) someone brought out a Scrabble board, and from then on it was a daily exercise, usually three or four games in a sitting. If I wanted to romanticize it, I might muse how Scrabble was our way of celebrating the English language, as it cured our homesickness and provided a respite from the unease of wandering around where you don’t understand what anyone’s saying and they all have rifles. If I was a little more true to myself, I could say that we played Scrabble because there’s nothing like the moment when someone attempts to explain why ‘jizz” should totally be legal. And if I was REALLY being honest, I’d say that I loved playing Scrabble because I usually stomped the living shit out of everyone.

Unfortunately, Scrabble gets a bit harder when I’m playing against the entire 34 million unique users on Facebook. What’s that? You doubt that there’s a network-wide conspiracy to rig the games against me? Oh, well then how do you explain the following, Professor Einstein van Hawking? Currently, I have 8 active games. These are my tiles for three of them:

#1) ATIIIOAA
#2) ITEOEIIE
#3) IIOLOSI

That’s 37.5% of my games that officially qualify for “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this crap?” status, and in a serious oversight, the programmers didn’t think to include a “Slam Table With Fist, Scattering Tiles Across The Floor, Then Pour Yourself A Glass Of Wine And Pout In The Corner” button. I now feel obligated to mention that there isn’t an actual point to this post; I just want to mention it because most of my opponents are Underpants readers and I’m trying to make an excuse for why I’m losing.

If only I was playing Hawaiian Scrabble or “Scrabble: Fellatio Edition”. Then those letters would be kick ass. ATIIIOAA: The blowjob transliteration of “Attire”. 57 points!

Once again, I spend weeks in L.A. over the winter holiday and come back to find that my blog has been demoted from “ghost town” to “wasteland”. If I neglected my actual underpants the way I do with these here Underpants, I’d have scabies, a majority of the Hepatitis alphabet and an unidentified lump. Then again, while I was away I saw just about everyone who comes to this blog, except for the three or four people who I didn’t previously know, and who have probably moved on to bigger and better. (Take me back, baby! I swear, I’ve changed! I’m a new man! Those other blogs don’t mean shit to me!) I can only attempt to make up for my negligence with vigor. In other words, unlike anything in my actual underpants, this is probably going to get lengthy.

It was a great trip. I saw my nephew, who is two years old. He giggles when he farts and pays attention to people in order, according to their boob size – I agree with where he stands on a lot of the big issues. (Diego in ’08!) You know what’s interesting about two year olds? EVERYTHING. People will spend hours watching a kid do the exact same thing over and over again, a phenomenon I call the Ocean’s 11Paradox. In social situations I frequently run out of things to say, but having a baby around meant I never had to have a conversation about the weather or Britney Spears, because whenever we hit one of those pauses that is usually followed by, “So what ELSE is going on with you?” somebody would just look at the kid, who’d be putting some object into some other object in a way that would either be cute or incredibly dangerous. Or he’d fart and then say, “I fart,” and as far as I’m concerned, that’s Wilde-caliber wit, right there. (Note: There’s only one thing funnier than a fart: a fart accompanied by play-by-play. I’m going to start shouting “DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?!?” every time I rip one.)

I spent New Year’s at the Magic Castle. It’s a dinner club for magicians, which tends to inspire a chuckle or two when I say it out loud, and understandably so: It sounds like somebody’s trying to call their treehouse a VIP lounge due to its exclusive, “no girls allowed” door policy. And was it nerdy? You betcha. There were magicians all over the place, and every one looked just like your average dungeon master dressed up in a tux. Like all nerds, they tended towards the short ends of the bell curve: overweight or skinny; bald or with a shoulder-length pony tail. Even the tuxes were mostly in purples or crimsons – the standard colors of warlock cloaks.

But this wasn’t your average tree fort. First of all, the place was a terrific steakhouse. I had like, five different animals over the course of my meal, and they were all delicious. And the club, built into a mansion that extends several floors underground, has bars on every floor made from the type of old wood that makes you want to order a scotch, whether you like it or not. And as nerdy as the aspiring Gandalfs all were, they were by no means anti-social recluses, because they weren’t just nerds; they were REDEEMED nerds. All those dorked out years had come full circle and it was paying off in full. The ladies in that place were every bit as USDA choice as the prime rib, and you didn’t have a chance in hell with them unless you owned a cane with a gold dragon on the grip. These guys knew that they were hot shit too. They would hit on your girlfriend while you were standing right next to her, and you could only hope that he hadn’t somehow impregnated her via slight-of-nuts.

And while every wizard had some self-deprecating jokes in their act, they were immediately followed by a come-on aimed at the hottest lady in the crowd. For example: one performer (who wasn’t even a magician – he was a juggler… A JUGGLER for cryin’ out loud) had an act featuring those wooden paddle ball toys, with the ball tethered by an elastic band. Playing with one of those? Geeky. Playing with one in each hand? Buy one geek, get the next geek free. But this guy was able to get THREE going at one point: one in each hand and one jammed into the zipper of his pants, kept in motion through crotch thrusts conveniently aimed at an exotic, dark-skinned beauty in the front row. I had an epiphany at that point: during those high school years I spent playing Magic: The Gathering, not only was I dork, but I was the wrong kind of dork. I’d invested heavily on the Pets.com of nerdom.

But the best part of the trip was I got to see most of my family and friends. The only downside was a logistical one: my two sets of close friends in California live on opposite ends of the state, and as it turns out, California is pretty goddamn big as far as states go. In order to see everybody, I had to drive from LA to San Francisco and back within 48 hours; approximately six hours each way. Don’t get me wrong; it’s an incredibly entertaining drive, as long as you enjoy artichoke farms and Spanish radio. If you’re one of the unfortunate few who don’t, then it’s nothing but a long, straight highway over an irrigated desert. To illustrate just how flat and straight the road is, in college I would actually read comic books or masturbate while I was driving, just to pass the time. (Note: Comic book reading and masturbation were not simultaneous, as that would be dangerous. I mean, semen stains really cut the resale value…) One time I even jerked off to a movie playing on a laptop in the passenger seat, and I was driving a stick shift at the time. (Yes, yes, I get it. But I actually mean it – my car had a manual transmission.)

But in college I made the drive alone; this time I figured it would be much more enjoyable, because now I have a girlfriend, and that means roadhead. I know that Wonder Woman’s father occasionally reads the Underpants, and at this point he might be gnashing his teeth at the idea of his daughter giving me a bobojo, or he might not, because I’m Jewish, and most Jewish parents don’t care as long as their daughters are eating kosher. But it doesn’t really matter, because the scoreboard reads: Hours driving – 12; Bobojo’s – 0.

Turns out that being in a car makes Wonder Woman sleepy, and in twelve hours I was unable to find a position where I could get my penis to her mouth while still keeping one appendage on the gas. (My KINGDOM for some cruise control!) I gave her coffee but it didn’t help; a few miles down the road I’d casually mention, “You know what I hear goes well with coffee? My dick,” but I’d look over and she’d already be lights out. She also considers roadhead to be dangerous, but commercials for erectile medications say erections lasting for more than four hours are dangerous too, and they’re talking about some guy in a bathtub on the edge of a picturesque hill, not a frustrated motherfucker in a Toyota.

Even worse: if she didn’t trust my ability to drive while orgasming when I had both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road, she probably would have thrown a fit if she woke up and found me “interrogating the prisoner” at 90 mph. Not to say that that stopped me from doing it; I just did it LESS. But she wasn’t just not giving me roadhead; by limiting my in-transit orgasms, she was actually road-cockblocking me.

Now, I’d have to check Wikipedia to be sure, but I believe that the internationally recognized roadhead ratio is equal to one bone smooch per three hours driving. I think it’s in the Magna Carta. That means I’m living with a fugitive from justice. (Please feel free to make up your own “penal system” joke here.)

And on that note… here’s to a happy new year!