Underpants On The Outside

Not that you’re watching it, but one of the actresses on “Journeyman” is named Moon Bloodgood, and I’m fascinated by her.  First of all, she’s hot - I recommend looking her up, but budget some time for it.   But as hot as she is (very), that’s not why I feel compelled to write about her.  Also, my Spidey-Sense tells me it wouldn’t be so smart to write about random hot women while I’m sleeping with my landlord. 

There’s something incredible about that name.  It’s a turbo boost of sexy appealing to the dorky side of me.  It takes an already hot woman and makes her sound like some kind of sex-Jedi.  To my inner nerd, she’s like an action figure…with a vagina.

At the same time, I imagine a teenage girl somewhere with pasty skin and Magic Marker pentagrams in her notebooks.  She too is known as MoonBloodGood (on AOL Instant Messenger).  She thought she was being so original; so unique, but soon people will think she’s a poser.  Now she’s gotta find a new Wicca name, just when she’d finally convinced her parents to stop calling her Katherine.  Poor, poor Kath- um, Moon.

Yes, it’s time once again for another demonstration of how I am the bestest boyfriend ever*.

Oh, also, if you’re Wonder Woman’s parents, please stop reading right now. Your daughter is a woman of boundless virtue. I swear. She never lets me do any of the things that I want to do to her.

On a typical Saturday morning, I wake up before Wonder Woman. I look to my left, see her there, stretched languorously on our bed, her head turned away so that I’m staring at the perfect curve of her neck. I lean over, and kiss her once just above the shoulder; delicately. Then, with the romance taken care of, I see if she wants to hump by poking her with my finger and/or erection and whispering, “Baby? …You up?…Baby? …Wanna hump?” Then one thing leads to another. (By “one thing”, I mean being told to go away, and by “another”, I mean, I get up and have a bowl of cereal.)

But apparently I didn’t check my calendar last Saturday, because it was “Role Reversal Day.” I woke up to find myself being taken advantage of; I felt cheap and dirty. Okay, that’s not true, but I DID feel really confused. My mind isn’t as quick on the uptake as it used to be, and it can take me a while to get my bearings in the morning. I can only imagine what it was like for my penis, who has essentially spent the last fifteen years in hard labor. That’s why I don’t blame it for what happened. Now, I don’t mean to say that NOTHING happened - you better believe SOMETHING happened. But “something” is about the best that I can describe it. She might as well have woken me up and challenged me to a game of mah-jong.

Later, we were sitting around and she asked me if anything had been wrong. I tried to tell her that everything was fine, I just hadn’t been able to get all the way up to speed. She was confused. After all, I had been…at this point she made sort of a shrugging gesture, which I took to mean that I had been majestically erect; as irresistible as a Thanksgiving Turkey (and just about as large), and as visually stunning as Fantasia. (I’m lucky that we have such a close connection where such things don’t even need to be said.) So I looked her in the eye, and said,

“Christ, it happens all the time. Don’t take it so personally.”

Let’s see you beat that, Hallmark.

*For the complete list of reasons, please see any of the lengthy letters I wrote to all those girls in high school. And for the record, I realize that this more demonstrates how Wonder Woman is the bestest girlfriend ever. But, y’know…whatever.

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.

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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 there’s one thing I’ve learned while stereotyping old people, it’s that as they get older they tend to become more and more afraid of death and more and more fond of cats.  So I imagine the folks in a certain nursing home in Providence, R.I., feel awfully conflicted whenever Oscar the Cat comes around, seeing as how he’s death incarnate.

According to this article, staff members at the nursing home have noticed that whenever Oscar cuddles up to someone, within four hours that person is usually dead. 

“He doesn’t make too many mistakes. He seems to understand when patients are about to die,”

says…A DOCTOR.  This cat amazes them, even though they work in a place where people’s children have left them to die.  I bet I could wow the shit out of them by sitting all the old folks around my “Twister Spinner of Doooooooooooom.” (“Left Foot Green…Say your goodbyes, Ira.  Hey, I see you trying to inch to your left, pal.  That’s not going to work; the board says you’re next.  C’mon, it’s not all bad - you get the next spin!”) 

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In its continued efforts to control everything in its immediate vicinity, China recently announced that it would be using rockets to prevent rain clouds before the 2008 Summer Olympics. Sweet. Nothing goes with an international gathering of goodwill better than rockets.

There are so many things to enjoy about this article. Such as:

China has already guaranteed perfect weather for the August 2008 Games, but until now had not said how it would make sure its forecast comes true.

Clearly China suffers from the same bizarre cleanliness-based insecurities as my mother, who would rush around the house, shouting that company was coming over so for God’s sake someone make sure the lint trap in the dryer was clean. Either that or the U.N. must be like high school. It rains on China’s Olympics, then the next thing you know France and the U.S. are snickering behind its back and India is sitting in China’s seat at the cool kids’ table that is the Security Council. Come to think of it, swap out rain for “menstrual bleeding” and you’ve got the beginning of Carrie. (You KNOW Russia is over there screaming, “They’re all going to laugh at you!!!”) Note to current presidential administration: should there be any unfortunate meteorological occurrences during the Olympics, please do not tease China. Yes, it would be funny to play “Make it Rain” the next time the ambassador comes over, or to pour a bucket of rain water on his head, but it’s just not worth the risk of the entire nation suddenly developing telekinetic powers.

Also, everyone knows the bit where you see a mosquito land on your buddy, so you punch that mosquito as hard as you can. It’s funny because you can punch your friend, and ultimately he has to thank you for it. I can just see it:

China: Hey, Taiwan – you guys still going on about that whole “independence” thing?
Taiwan: Of course we are. We demand that you respect our rights as a sovereign- [BOOM!] What the hell was that???
China: Oh man, that was close! That cloud was just about to land on you! You’re lucky I was here to shoot it.
Taiwan: What? What cloud? I don’t see any cloud…
China: How did you not see it!? It was huge! I didn’t get a great look, but it might have even been a cumulo nimbus. I can’t believe you missed it. Anyway, you were saying?
Taiwan: Ah, yes. I was saying that we see ourselves as a foreign entity, under forced rule by the People’s Repub- [BOOM!]
China: There it goes again!

I also like the idea of some public relations official guaranteeing nice weather while dozens of government scientists turn to each other asking, “Can we do that? I don’t think we can do that. Who told him we can do that?” It’s like a grand-scale, real-life Dilbert strip.

All in all, don’t the Chinese realize they are blatantly tempting the gods here? It doesn’t tend to work out well. Greece has quite a bit of literature on the subject. (Please refer to Odyssey, The) So to all of our Olympians: please don’t forget your umbrellas.

P.S. Z’s bad joke of the post: Beijing sure Beijinxed themselves on this one.

First of all, as you read this you’ll see why the title is such an awful joke. My bad.

Recently I came across this article. Several members of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders went tandem skydiving with members of the Army Golden Knights, an elite paratrooper unit. And while I know those guys have a very dangerous job and train incredibly hard…well, I’m sure no one had a tough time getting out of bed that morning.

The thing about the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders is that they’re a lot like nurses, stewardesses and Hooters waitresses. They’re not as hot as they used to be, but there’s still a sexual mystique about them, a holdover from the generations that remember WWII. What I mean is that if an American male ever has the chance to have sex with one, he sort of feels compelled to, because his father would be incredibly proud. And jealous. It’s all very Oedipal.

In any case, no matter what these cheerleaders looked like, those guys were working on ‘em (as they should have). Then I started thinking of skydiving-based pickup lines they might have used I would have used in that situation, like, “Have you ever felt the earth move from ten thousand feet above it?” Then I kicked it up a notch in terms of planning and creepiness, and the following is how the orientation speech would have gone that morning if I was running it and it wasn’t for things like subtlety and the women’s rights movement.

———–

Good morning, ladies. I’m Lieutenant Z, and on behalf of the rest of the Golden Knights I’d like to welcome you to Fort Worth. As you know, today you will be doing a tandem skydive from a height of 13,500 feet. It’s actually only ten thousand feet, but we tell the ladies it’s longer – ha ha, that’s a little paratrooper humor for you.

Now, before we get started, let me ask you all a question: who wants to join the two and a half mile high club? I have to warn you, by the time you officially join, it may be more like the mile, mile and a quarter club. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But seriously, if you’re interested, please see Corporal Thompson over to my right, he has some waivers you’ll need to sign.

Upon exiting the plane, you will be experiencing sixty seconds of freefall. Many women owe the best sixty seconds of their lives to one of us - some of them have even gone skydiving, too! HI YO! Hopefully someone’s writing these down, because I’m on fire today! But back to freefalling, when you leave that airplane, you’re going to want to arch your back with your arms and legs spread-eagle. We’ll cover this in more detail later, but this will help your partner control your descent. Who knows, maybe he’ll throw in a few exciting rolls or flips…. It will also provide him the chance to double-check your harness, particularly the troublesome buckles in the chest and upper-thigh areas. We care about your safety. That’s our job.

At this time I am legally obligated to read the following statement:

The parachutes we will be using today do not feature two primary rip cords. If you are told any conflicting information by your jump partner, please inform the Officer In Charge, particularly in the case that one of the rip cords is unusually flesh-like in coloration, and you are instructed to ‘be gentle with it.’

Blah blah blah, legal mumbo jumbo…– hey, did you come here for jury duty or to jump out of a plane? There was an isolated incident a long time ago, but let me assure you that all of the guilty parties have been reprimanded. Which actually reminds me, let’s welcome back Sgt. Davis, who has just returned from a six-month unpaid leave of absence – say hi, Charlie!

I bet some of you have questions. One that I hear a lot is, “Hey, Lieutenant Z, can I get pregnant in mid-air?” No, you cannot. It has something to do with air pressure, but don’t ask me to explain it unless you’re also willing to ask your OB-GYN to jump out of a plane in the middle of the night, two miles above enemy territory.

Okay, that’s all the time we have for Q&A. It’s time for us to split up into pairs, but before we do, let me leave you with one final thought. Most of you have probably never seen what a human body looks like after hitting the ground from two and a half miles up. Hopefully you never will, because it’s beyond the power of words to describe. So take my word for it – having sex with your partner is a lot more preferable, if you catch my drift. That even goes for whoever’s stuck with Sgt. “Cease-and-Desist” Davis over there.

Have fun up there ladies, and just so you know, we’re all shipping out tomorrow morning – this could be our last night on Earth.

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”.