Close One (or potentially 3!)

"Close one!"

That was my thinking last week when I was wearing one of my favorite pairs of boxer shorts.

I don’t remember when I started wearing boxer shorts, but I know the radio station Eagle 106 was still around, because they were an Eagle 106 pair. I remember them well because they were made of this horrific material that was so stiff the “pee hole” was always open, kind of defeating the purpose of underwear at all. If that wasn’t bad enough, my Mom won them for me.

And thus I entered the world of boxer shorts.

There are many stories I could share, such as the “white” Homer Simpson boxers I destroyed…the less detailed the better on this one, but note “white” is in quotes. There’s the light pair I accidentally dyed pink. I continued to wear them, because who would ever know? Then, and perhaps the greatest boxer story known to man, there was my infamous “Bullwinkle” boxers. I wore them to France (no underpants poem coming up). And decided they should, like many works or Art, remain in the Louvre. I have a map indicating where I hid them. Some day I hope to go back and see if they are still there. France is pretty dirty. I’m thinking they are.

So the other day, I put on one of my favorite pairs. They’re supportive. They’re comfortable. They’re one of the pairs that make my day better when their turn comes up. We all have pieces of clothes like this. Which makes you wonder why you hang on to the ones that don’t make you fell like this. I put them on last week and went off into the dangerous world of boxer wearing…

I saddled up to the urinal like a cowboy’s known to do and did what cowboys did…besides running the Natives off their land. Although I guess in a way there was a similarity…that is if the cowboys had asparagus the night before. I finished and pulled the zipper up…and got caught!

Here’s the thing that the ladies will never understand…er…at least I hope they never understand…can you snag a labia in your zipper? Because if you could, you should probably be in the circus. Every guy, at some point in his life will “catch himself.” It just happens. It’s usually not something you feel right away. You think, “Did I?” but you there’s no pain. Then it HITS! *WHAM-O!

*I did notice that I have WHAM, “getting caught” and men’s rooms in this past sentence. I dedicate it to George Michaels.

I felt resistance, which causes an immediate stoppage of zippering. I looked down and realized, not unlike the Secret Service, my boxers took one for the Commander in Shorts. Will they get a metal? Unlikely. Will they be remembered in a text book for children to read about for years to come? No, but as previously mentioned one of their contemporaries is in the Louvre. Will they just get thrown into the trash and become another discarded piece of clothing eventually worn by a homeless man? Maybe…but not yet. I am happy to say I am wearing them as I write this.

They’re my favorite pair, how could I simple toss them aside especially after they took one for the team (I refer to my parts as a team, as we’re all in this together).

So next time you put on some article of clothing that is near a dear to your heart, stop a moment and enjoy that feeling, especially if your “heart” happens to be in your crotch.

Chi TOWN!

I am thinking of auditioning for the Musical “Chicago.” There’s only 1 problem…I can’t sing. I’m one of those Irish that likes to think he can sing, but deep down knows there’s a potato feminine in my tune carrying department. This is a trait only found in Irish Americans. I’m not saying that ALL natural born Irish can sing, I’m just saying they all think they can and would never admit anything else.

So, Wilmington Drama League is about to put up “Chicago.” I enjoy the musical, but I’m not going to pretend that I love it or it’s the great musical I’ve ever heard. But it does have one thing I am a huge fan of, fishnets.


*I swear they look better on a person...well not ALL persons...

I don’t know where my obsession for the airy leggings came from. Perhaps the Las Vegas ads in my Dad’s old VFW magazines (which, by the way, seems like an appropriate ad for a magazine about war, “You’re lucky enough to survive Vietnam, now try your luck ay blackjack!”)

The thing is this…I just flat out can’t sing. So my thinking is Matt Casarino, director of Chicago (and writer extraordinaire in his own right…or rite…or write – HEY-O!) should add a character, The Prison Janitor. That’s right. Who cleans up those floors the girls get all sexy on? The Janitor. The can’t be dancing around on dirty floors, this is not Flashdance after all. His back story is tragic. He was beaten by his mother as a child and as a result has become a mute (no singing – brilliant). His tragic flaw, he’s obsessed with fishnets, probably from frequenting dirty prostitutes (come on, the guy isn’t going to be picking chick up in bars, he’s a mute AND a Janitor). Though he doesn’t sing or talk, he can even have a dance number if it’s necessary. Maybe with a mop? I don’t know. That’s really up to Matt to decide.



In the end he runs off with Roxy Hart when he realizes he can communicate through her when she sits on his lap ala ventriloquist dummy. He sings a heart wrenching song at the end in his own voice (which is actually sung off stage by someone else). The women all swoon for him because they are amazed at how beautiful his singing voice is and that you can’t see his lips move. They show their appreciation by using their fishnet clad bodies to writhe across the floor. Both turning The Janitor on and, kindly enough, taking care of his cleaning chores.

I don’t know that this dream of mine will come true. However, I high recommend you ALL plead with Matt Casarino, that this is the direction he should take the show when you show up for auditions Sunday, July 11 and Monday, July 12 at 7:00pm. Tell him, “you send one of ours to the stage or we’ll send you to the morgue…that’s the Chicago way.” It works better with some Ennio Morricone score behind it.

I’d say I’ll see you there, but there’s I am in a local production of Rocky Horror that night, playing the mute Butler who rubs against everyone.

Karma Vs Caffeine

No matter what my wife says, Karma is a bitch! She gets angry when I say this. She says based on MY version of Karma, the people in Haiti did something to bring the shit storm they have experience over recent times on themselves. Neither she nor I actually believe this. I’m sure some of you do, and you are the one Karma is looking to gang rape.

So that said, I have spent many of my days making fun of people with lazy eyes, crazy eyes or eyes that are completely missing. Growing up, not a day would go by when I didn’t make fun of Sandy Duncan. I still do, though most people don’t know who that is. If you try and explain it to them, their eyes glass over (which is kind of ironic or eye-ronic).

Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Falk, Stevie Wonder…ok, he didn’t have a glass eye, but we still made fun of his deformity.

That said my eye has been twitching like crazy! So much so that I have taken to calling my right eye Alex P. Keaton (because again, the 80s sitcom stars must fell my wrath!)

I thought the twitch was being caused by mounting stress. My wife (the one who doesn’t believe in my vicious version of Karma) seems to think caffeine is the culprit. I had given up drinking soda a couple of years ago because I was starting to get a bit large in the “lower region” (my gut). However, like a true addict, it slowly crept back into my life.

So I stopped drinking it again 2 days ago. But alas, I woke up this morning with a blood filled eye. “What the what?”

I can now only assume it is not caffeine, but rather Karma making a visit.

So I’d like to apologize to Sandy Duncan for all of the times a Wheat Thins commercial came on and my brothers and I laughed at you. I apologize to Peter Falk, who always seemed so focused on the case as Columbo even if he couldn’t focus on an object. I apologize to Steve Wonder. I have seen you lately buddy (notice no joke about you not being able to see me?) Seriously, you too might want to cut out the soda and perhaps go easy on the Wheat Thins. And finally I apologize to you the reader, for that horrendous “eye ronic” joke I told. You deserve better than that.

As for Alex P. Keaton, you can suck it buddy! Just becaussssssss…

…Holy Shit! My hand started shaking at the end of that sentence!