underwhere

I’ve got a leaky faucet. And I am not talking about my sink, kitchen or otherwise. Now today I realize after a month of being short on underwear after The Incident (a blog for another day) new underwear is needed, sorely. So I go to my local Fred Meyers.

Upon arrival, a predicament is shown to me in deciding which whitey tighties I should purchase. My first instinct is to buy the color white—not because of racism and/or The Bible, but because, well, they are “whitey tighties.” But if the pure is my choice what awful calamities could happen upon them? For one, as I have mentioned, my leaky faucet would render the front of my new under-shorts yellow. Secondly, The Incident, aforementioned, of which I am at no point to be able to write on, could ravage the color white in unmentionable ways. White is out, but what of black? Semen, semen is what of black—the foil to all colors condensed—or lacking, depending if you look upon a computer screen, or a painter’s canvas.

Black is out. Green is preposterous. And blue? Blue you ask of? I may as well buy black.

So my proposal is this: A multi-colored “whitey tightie”, one that will suffuse semen and urine in the front, and would hide in the back whatever came of The Incident.

I’m requesting a campaign convincing Hanes, and Michael Jordan if needs be, to create such a tightie for us with leaky faucets, a propensity to precarious semen placement, and those, who at their lowest point, can succumb to The Incident.

Join me.

the rock at the plaid

A man came in, scrunched short, with a heavy, general accent wanting to know if we sold glass pipes. “They smoke the rock in them,” was his only qualifying statement.

more about potatos, part two

more about potatos

my courtly youtube subscribers

I recently posted my videos, shoed in and shoed in, part two on a youtube account I created in hopes of achieving worldwide fame.

My only subscribers so far are men with beard fetishes.

shoed in, part two

part two, to see part one scroll down.

Tinkling Capacity

I kept a tan plastic bucket of X-Men action figures under my bed, playing with them until my mid-teens. Puberty saw black curled hairs gathering on the carpet, and then clinging to the small men—curling around bulging arms and legs. Finally they would settle into mussed piles in each of the bucket’s corners. By this time Wolverine had lost an arm, Gambit a leg, and all my friends their toys. The plastic men could no longer be involved with social interaction like when I was six; the bucket would be tucked further under the bed for still easy access, but also guarded anonymity.

At times, when I was sure no one would walk in, I would act out what little and imprecise things known about sex using the action figures. The scenes more resembled fish fighting on land then human copulation.

I stopped watching the Saturday morning cartoons of the mutant- powered heroes much earlier. When I did watch—every Saturday morning—it was assumed a mutant power laid within myself. Festering powers, and solving problems, like the prophets of old I learned of on Sunday mornings. It seemed a sure thing, I was after all a child of God (like the song), and I did feel different (red hair and all). I thought about his future powers every day—whether they would resonate from my eyes or nipples, and which world leaders would offer thank yous and medals—and was more than a little disappointed when I discovered my only mutant power was wetting the bed until the age of sixteen.

shoed in, part one

part two coming soon.