Underpants On The Outside

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!