Long-time readers of this blog will tell you that I have a mild obsession with underwear. I have written at least five different posts about bras. I still get comments on a post from 2005 where I ask “Boxers or Briefs?” I even admitted that I once wore Sophia’s panties one a day when I ran out of underwear from not doing the laundry. In each of these posts, I would always get some joker telling me to “go commando.” At first, I didn’t even understand what the phrase meant. It sounded very war-like, and I am a lover, not a fighter.
And then I learned that “going commando” meant not wearing underwear at all.
Now there are many stereotypes about Jewish men.
“They kvetch a lot.”
“They are momma’s boys.”
“The have no idea how to change the oil in their car.”
“They start Ponzi schemes and steal billions of dollars.”
These stereotypes are not all true. I have NEVER started a Ponzi scheme and stolen billions of dollar. Of course, I would like to do that; I just don’t know how! It it sad really. Aren’t Jews supposed to be good with money? That would be so great during these economic times, when I am thinking of monetizing my blog. Today, I called my mother in Boca Raton and asked her if I was adopted, or maybe the love-child of Tony Finaldi in Apartment 3D. I am crappy with money, but I do have an insatiable attraction to pizza, and I would sooo go down on Marisa Tomei. I have loved her for years!
Sigh. Anyway, the point is that Jewish men… do not go commando. It is written in the Torah.
Last night, my friend Barry called me up.
“Hey, I’m in the neighborhood.” he said. “You want to go look at the 1/2 of Shea Stadium still standing, and then go out?”
“Sure,” I said. “Better than sitting around reading some idiots on Twitter.” (not you, my favorite Twitter follower, the other 1000 people)
Note: by going out with Barry, it means that we would be going to the same diner that we have been going to since junior high, and sitting there for four hours, and talking about nothing important and bragging about my new iphone and showing him Google Earth, and complaining about marriage, and telling him that if I don’t get some pussy soon, I will just melt away into oblivion, which really isn’t that much different from what I was doing on Twitter earlier that evening.
I took a quick shower, and then remembered that I had no clean underwear. I had been wearing my last piece of underwear for two days straight. I had been so busy trying to learn how to use my manual can opener (see previous post), that I had not done the laundry (in three weeks).
“Screw it,” I said. “I’m gonna be as cool as my Gentile blog readers, who seem to have no problem going commando and having their dicks rub against the metalic zipper and being unsanitary when they drip all over their pants after they pee.”
For the first time in my life, on January 30, 2008, I went commando. And, on Shabbos.
I probably should have waited until the spring. Going commando in the freezing New York winter, when it is twenty degrees, is what my mother might say, “what a moron would do.” Especially when I had to wait outside for fifteen minutes, as my friend was late, and the blistering wind and bitter cold flew right under my pants where the precious jewels had no protection to fight off the frigid grasp of winter.
Punishment from God.
If someone finds my penis, which froze like an icicle, and fell off somewhere near the Long Island Expressway, please email me. Thank you.
