I love my girl.
And I love the fact that she's so incredibly thoughtful. For example, she was at Big Lots the other day (one of her few sick, dark, and insidious obsessions/addictions) when she saw a sale on men's knit boxers.
She bought me a pack.
So far, everything's cool here.
I don't think about things like that. Really... I could be wearing boxers held together by ass grease and two threads and it's highly unlikely that I will (a) notice or (b) give a shit.
There is something to be said, though, in slipping on a pair of brand new knit boxers. It's like a soft yet crisp feeling t-shirt for your gennies.
Truly, a wondrous feeling, indeed.
BUT... you MUST remember that these are NEW boxers.
They are not like your old boxers.
Unless you get the exact - EXACT - same brand, you must beware your muscles' memory.
If you have been in a meeting lubricated with flowing thermii of coffee and carafes of OJ, the likelihood is high that by the end of the 2 hours, you will need to urinate - nay, PISS.
And you will get to the urinal.
And you will unzip your fly.
And the torrent of yellow will begin flowing through the necessary escape tubes.
And your hands will go to unbutton the boxers.
And you will not find the button.
Suddenly, in that split instant, you are caught between fumbling desperately for an opening to your clothes whilst your by-products are flooding your insides, rushing to the only opening possible with great vigor and reckless abandon.
You will whimper.
You will realize that in a hummingbird's heartbeat you will be soaking first your boxers and next your pants.
A lesser man than I would not have been quick enough to yank the business end out in time.
The moral of the story is: Know your buttons.