Underpants On The Outside

Very few of you will notice or care, but I have deleted the Underpants post where I mention the company where I now work.  Moving forward, please avoid referring it to name – if you must call it anything, let’s go with “The Magic Kingdom.”

This new policy is in response to an article sent to me by Robbb, frequent commenter and co-counsel on the Underpants legal staff. (Because you can’t spell “pro bbbono” without “robbb.”)  The article basically explained that when bloggers mention their employers in the same place where they talk about really depraved shit, they frequently become significantly less employed.  As it turns out, The Magic Kingdom is pretty good at tracking down information, so let’s keep things incognito so I can be free to talk about things like the following:

It is no secret that kids are always on the lookout for new ways to get themselves intoxicated while avoiding detection from their parents and/or authority figures.  Procuring legitimate drugs or alcohol is so hard that half the time you’re huffing the air from tennis ball cans just in case you get lucky, so when you actually score something good, you don’t want to have your stash jacked because you ran out of gum.  One of my favorites was taking the cardboard from a roll of paper towels, stuffing it full of dryer sheets and using that as some kind of catalytic converter for marijuana smoke. If my parents ever got suspicious by my friends coming over and holing up in my room for hours on end, their minds would surely be at ease once they realized we were doing laundry.

Now I discover that our efforts were amateurish at best. If we were really hardcore, we would have soaked tampons in vodka and shoved them up our asses, the way that kids these days are doing it.

If you need to, take a couple minutes to absorb this info (pardon the pun, haha.)  Come back when you’re ready.

There are so many things I have to say about this, I don’t really know where to start.  First, a quick aside about the article in that second link.  Did you notice that the subject of the article, “Milagros Rios” is a fictitious name?  That’s a writer with some style, right there.  Hats off to you, Maria Castro (if that’s your real name!!!)

But what really fascinates me about this phenomenon is that there aren’t a lot of lingo names for it.  The only thing I can find is that the practice is referred to as “slimming,” and frankly, I’m disappointed.  Teenagers are usually much more clever than that, as anyone who knows what the “Hoover” and “Two Dogs in the Shower” are could tell you.

I want to believe that you, the Underpants readers, could do better.  I gave it a couple hours of thought (okay, okay, a couple of days), and here’s what I came up with:

• Clogging the Drain
• The Russian Cyclops
• Dronking (Like drinking, but kinda different)
• Taking the Brown-Eye Flight

I’m hoping you guys can come up with a few funny ones.  I’m also having a pretty good time imagining how things might have gone if kids in my school had been doing this.  For instance, Underpants commenter John Law was always a bit of a lightweight back in our high-school days.  Does that mean he would have stuffed his ass with tampons soaked in wine coolers?   Does Grey Goose go down (or go up – you decide) smoother than Popov?

Can we discuss this a lot?  I’m still giggling about it.

I have a hernia.

It’s small, and I’ve had it for years, because it hardly gives me any trouble. That makes me sound like some kind of anatomical landlord, but it really hasn’t. It doesn’t hurt very much or very often.

Mine is located about halfway down the waist-dick meridian, and every once in a while I’ll exert myself or cough, and the skin will bulge out like I’m smuggling a bullfrog.*  No big deal; all I do is shove it back down and we’re all good.  As an added bonus, having an abdominal Whack-A-Mole game officially makes my pants an amusement park. (It also sometimes bulges out when I’m… uh… sexually, er… y’know… banging. I think it’s rather thematic, don’t you? At those times I think of it as my Northern Boner Annex.)

The past couple weeks my hernia has been hurting more than usual, and it’s time to have it repaired.  Today I went in for a consultation with a surgeon, which meant an afternoon off of work, though I wasn’t looking forward to it.  I’ve actually described a hernia examination on the Underpants before, but for those of you who love my talent for imagery, let me give it another go:

Imagine someone trying to use your pelvis as a glove.  What I mean is, the doctor places one or two fingers in that below-the-belt-but-not-quite-second-base area, then shoves her fingers in and up until it feels like she’s wrist deep in your groin.  If I was a doctor, I don’t know how I’d ever resist the temptation to then say, “Okay, now I’m going to drink this glass of water while you recite the alphabet.”

That’s right, I said “her fingers.”  Did I not mention my doctor is of the second-X-chromosome persuasion?  Well, she is, and that brings me to the point of this blog post.  (Not that I need one; dick jokes justify themselves.)

Last night, I was getting ready to take a shower.  Wonder Woman was taking her sweet-ass time** in there, so I found myself standing in a room, cold, pondering my nakedness. Looking down, it occurred to me that in a half-day’s time a woman was going to investigating THAT area, and I started to wonder if I should trim.  Not to make me look huge, or anything; it just seemed like it might be the polite thing to do. Sure, she’s a doctor, and she’s undoubtedly seen worse, but it looked like my junk was putting on a live-action performance of Br’er Rabbit and the Briar Patch.

So I pulled out (or shall I say, “whipped out”) my clippers, when I started to wonder about which guard I should go with.  Based on experience (I’ll tell you about it another time) I know that anything under a half-inch itches like a motherfucker after about a day.  Besides, if I went too short it might seem smarmy; the kind of thing a guy might do before giving his dick a spritz of Axe body spray or Drakkar Noir.

Now, I know that the Underpants’ audience consists of dudes who have no problem talking about their junk, but we are also lucky enough to have at least three medically-trained ladies along with us.  I’d like to hear your thoughts on the matter: what’s the etiquette here?

As for myself, I ended up choosing a one-inch guard.  I felt it made a statement of considerate, yet casual.  (I also went with Eternity for Men.)

Not like it mattered. I was so disheartened when she told me, “please drop your pants, but you can keep your underwear on.”  She didn’t even ask me to lie down – we just did it in a corner, standing up, with my pants around my ankles.  I felt so cheap.

*I really thought I could make an Alien joke there, but I kept getting caught up in the fact that the only way for me to have an alien burst out THERE is if the “facehugger” gave me a blowjob instead.  I’m not saying I’d turn it down… I’m just saying it’s unlikely.

**As a married man I am obligated to make at least one “boy, my wife spends a lot of time in the bathroom” joke annually.  In fact, I take far longer showers than her, even though I come out far less clean. I won’t lie: I fucking love showers.

A couple good things happened recently.  I got an article up on Cracked.  Check it out, because they’re really nice there and deserve the traffic.  I needed that kick in the ass to get writing again, because I haven’t written anything for a while now.

Then again, not writing is working out pretty well for me.

If you were to go to your local magazine stand and buy the November issue of Geek Monthly magazine with Paul Rudd (who I have a man-crush on and I don’t care who knows it) on the cover, you will notice that I appear on the contributors’ page. I’m the one dressed up as a piñata!

Congratulations! In your hand is the first print publication I have ever appeared in! Okay, yeah, there’s no actual article of mine in the magazine, but I paid five dollars for it; that’s a contribution. Recognize.

This is a very big step for me.  Despite this era of bloggers and instant internet celebrity, it’s still difficult for a writer to get respect until he or she has been published in print.  (The New Yorker still won’t pick up the phone when I call, and I know they’re home!  I see their lights on!)  Thankfully Geek Monthly sees my potential, and agrees that I deserve this respect, even when my writing itself doesn’t make the cut.

There are bound to be some naysayers (or Geek Monthly editors) who will insist that my article was cut at the last minute, and that my presence on the contributors’ page was merely an “editorial oversight.”  I’ve heard it all before. (Who’s a “prophylactic oversight” now, Dad!)

I counter that this is in fact an indication of my incredible talent. I got NOTHING published!  What other writer can say that? I mean, every time Hemingway wanted to get published he had to write SOMETHING, didn’t he? Same with Dickens!  That’s what happens when you’re a no-talent hack: you have to work hard, like a chump.  I got in on name recognition alone. (I’m sure my effortless good looks helped.)

Now I’m told that I will also be featured in the January issue, and as an added bonus to their readers, the Geek Monthly editorial staff will also include an article of mine.  Bonus!  Just don’t forget: my writing is just the cranberry sauce; I’m the turkey.

Wait, that last part came out wrong.

[In truth, I am very grateful to the staff of Geek Monthly, and very excited to appear in the Jan issue.  Go buy the magazine; it's good, and they have terrific taste in contributors.]

One of my favorite jokes begins, “what has two thumbs and likes blowjobs?”  Well, I’ve got a new variation on it – what has two thumbs and likes blowjobs, but has elected to receive those blowjobs from only one person for the rest of his life?  [points thumbs at self]  THIS GUYYYYYYYY!

That’s right, readers, I went and got myself hitched, which is largely why I’ve been so scarce when it comes to writing.  Wonder Woman has become Wonder Wife, though I still have to refer to her as Wonder Woman, because she’s not changing her last name.  (More on this another time – I want to talk about my wedding.  For the time being, let me just say: up yours, Gloria Steinem.)

Looking back after these several years of marriage (wait – what do you mean, “three weeks?” …Oh, crap.)  I’ve come to the conclusion that getting married was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.  Getting engaged was one of the dumbest.

Planning a wedding is like spending eight straight months immersed in the joy and wonderment of doing your taxes. Consider:

1)      You spend the entire time vaguely certain you are getting screwed out of your money.  There are professionals who could help you pay less, but of course they’ll charge you twice as much for the service.

2)      You are required to look up hundreds of pieces of obscure data that you’ll never need again.  Think of someone from your past – maybe a friend of your parents. Not a good friend, but a face you can recall from the occasional dinner party.  Got it?  Good.  Now find out if they’re allergic to cats, because that will affect the seating chart.

3)      Realizing you have enough of a rationale to strike one of your friends from the invite list brings the same shortsighted thrill that comes from realizing that while you lost your life savings in the stock market… hey, it’s deductible!

4)      When you receive a $300 refund check, all of a sudden the $25,000 you paid to the government seems like a pretty sweet deal, right?  Well, the same thing happens with a wedding; just replace “$25,000″ with “a whole lot more” and “$300 refund check” with “$100 Pottery Barn gift certificate.”

So yeah, it was a bit of an ordeal, but like I keep telling Wonder Woman, I think I’ve learned a lot of good lessons for the next one.  (She has yet to find this funny.  Give it time and repetition and I’m sure she’ll come around.)  Plus, when you pay taxes, what do you get?  Government – big whoop.  If Santa left you a big box of Government under your Christmas tree, next year you’d leave him Fig Newtons and soy milk.  But when you plan a wedding, your reward is the MOST ROCKINGEST PARTY OF ALL TIME.

Start to finish, it was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to, including several that involved pyrotechnics, naked women and hallucinogens, and I have my beautiful bride to thank for it.  She made two decisions in particular that I feel I must pass on for future generations.

First, for the week leading up to your wedding, stay in a hotel, even if you’re getting married in your own backyard. I’m sure your parents are good people, and they really, really want to help, but the situation is way over their heads.  It would be like a Labrador offering to fix your flat tire.

Second: get a photo booth.  You know, the old-fashioned ones with the strip of four photos, the first two of which are always of people in the middle of the sentences, “I’m not sure if I did it right; is it going?” and, “Damn it, I wasn’t ready.”  I now love photo booths. If there’s a way to have more fun in four square feet, I don’t know what it is, probably because all the girls I’ve ever dated are cowards.

The idea behind the photobooth was that the photos would make for an interesting guestbook.  In our case, the guestbook is the first half; the second half is more of a “me-book”, with cameo appearances by people who I care about and/or were standing nearby.  In fact, you can turn the pages quick and it looks like a flipbook titled, “Z and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Open Bar.”

But that’s the best thing about weddings: it doesn’t matter.  There’s a great scene in Goodfellas where Ray Liotta demonstrates the sheer awesomeness of being in the mob through a repeated mantra of, “fuck you, pay me.” Normally, I can’t relate – I’m a 5′3″ Semite, meaning the only way I’m getting in the mob is as their accountant.  But for one night I understood, because I could do whatever I wanted. In other words, “fuck you, it’s my wedding.”

When I felt like talking, I grabbed the microphone.  I puked on my friend’s $100 shirt*.  I touched tongues with another friend’s girlfriend while we were making silly faces in the photo booth, and when I danced, I danced like a man who has finally accepted that he’s never going to impress black people.  Fuck you, it’s my wedding.

*Whatever, it washed out.