So today is my birthday and after work I was planning on going out with some friends and drinking myself into a liquid state. While discussing plans for the night, primarily where I was going to crash and said logistics, I realized that I had neglected to bring any undergarments to wear tomorrow. I brought a pair of pants, socks, and a polo shirt, but no undershirt or underwear. There are only three ways this was going to turn out. I could go commando tomorrow and then post about the new freedom I had discovered, but that struck me as being too derivative from Dave’s recent adventure in underpantlessness. I could wear the same underthings I am wearing today, although this option was not really actually considered and is just listed here for completeness. The third option is that I find a nice quiet store and pick up some britches at some point during the night.
Since shopping in a group while drunk is always an exciting proposition this option held some momentary appeal to me until I realized I would probably come back with a red leather banana hammock festooned with sequins. This could be bad, and I am not just talking on a squishing the boys into said red leather banana hammock festooned with sequins would be uncomfortable bad, but it would also be bad on a psychological level. And since we would be drunk and there would be several of us there might either be pictures of me trying it on, but at the very least word would get out about James and the Giant Thong.
I emailed the evening’s MC regarding the need to stop somewhere to prevent an unnecessary commando mission (I wanted to work in a joke about assassinating Hugo Chavez here, but I just can’t come up with anything). His response was exactly four words long and it solved all of my problems. What were the magic words you ask?
“Foley’s is your friend…”
He could not be more right; or so I thought. With the downtown Foley’s barely two blocks down the street from my office (I can actually see it from my window) acquiring the previously mentioned unmentionables was going to be a piece of cake.
I think Shakespeare said it best when Puck said, “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”
I made the quick jaunt down to Foley’s, only momentarily distracted by the bus being towed by one of the big tow trucks (those things are so frickin’ cool). Once I arrived at Foley’s the comedy of errors began. To start with I could not figure out where the men’s underpants section was. The sign told me that men’s wear was on the second floor, therefore I thought this the best place to start. They had slacks, suits, sportswear, and women’s “intimate apparel” (as soon as I saw the section I felt like a pervert and that all the women on the floor were looking at me in disdain) but no britches.
You might think this would be the time to ask where they keep the undies, but not for me! I don’t need no stinkin’ directions! I then went to the third floor. Girls clothes. Before I proceeded to the fourth floor I found another store directory. This time I bothered to read the directory and learned that men’s shirts, shoes, and furnishings were actually on the first floor. I told the part of my brain that was making jokes about men’s furnishings to shut up and went downstairs. There, tucked away in some corner of the store, were the underwear racks.
This was it! I had arrived. Now all I had to do was find some underoos that fit and I could be on my way. (Man I miss the underoos. I would totally wear Batman underoos if they made them in adult sizes.) I looked through the racks thinking all I had to do was find some that fit. Find some that fit. Find some that fit. Find some that fit. (Imagine a somewhat crappy echo effect here as I search for underpants.) I found one package of underwear that are of an appropriate size. ONE PACKAGE! That’s it. In all the Jockeys’, Tommy, Ralph Lauren, Hanes, and Fruit of the Loom there were only two pairs of boxer shorts in the whole damn store that would fit my chunky butt.
MC Rob I hate to disagree with you, but you were wrong. Foley’s is not my friend. Foley’s is an evil empire telling me I am too fat to fit into their stylish underpants. Sounds like a lot of girls I have met in my life. Huh.
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