I'll be brief: I need some new boxers
Eamonn Rockwell
Issue date: 2/16/07 Section: Ed-Op
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Although I may be pointing out the obvious, and you're planning to slap me like an old abusive grandmother if I even think of mentioning it, but next Friday, Feb. 23, is my birthday. I will be turning 19, one of the more useless years in a person's life. At that age (I assume), you're too old to feel proud of being able to legally buy cigarettes, but you're not old enough to be proud of buying alcohol without needing a fake ID. But nonetheless, it's a day to celebrate the day I was born, which is the day after Drew Barrymore, but before Edward James Olmos. Unlike all my previous birthdays, where I decided to be selfish as payback for every other day when I didn't receive anything but a rushed FedEx shipment of pain, I've decided that this year I should try to help out others by getting them to help me help them. (That previous sentence will make more sense when I explain my birthday desire.)
The principal item on my birthday list this year is new boxers. I don't mean to brag, but apparently my junk is so vast and powerful that it can burst through any pair of boxers, even that solid titanium pair that I got at an old Soviet yard sale. (Boris, you damn shyster! You swore on Lenin's embalmed corpse that the underwear and the warhead were in perfect working condition!) While having a package that can burst forth through any cloth like an IED through an unarmored Humvee may seem impressive, it is burdensome when you're searching for durable and comfortable boxers. Finding both of those qualities in underwear like trying to find an invisible hay-colored needle in the proverbial haystack when you're working on a farm all day and Pa yells at you for not doing some miscellaneous farm chore, causing you to mope around in the cornfield at night. On the other end of the spectrum, some of my boxers are so tight that I'm getting blue balls simply from the blood being cut off to the entire region. It's sort of like there's a 1970s OPEC oil embargo in my pants. (If that's not a pickup line, I don't want to know what is.) If I can't have durability and comfort at the same time, then I urge the Drexel student community to buy me numerous pairs of boxers (size 32-34) to spare the fellows on my floor who have been exposed to more than their minimum required dose of my body. While some of them clearly salivate over the site of my almost-nude figure and would want to ravage it were I a homosexual, the majority of those brave men want the area between my chiseled 12-pack stomach (oh, it's possible) and my statuesque biker's thighs to be completely covered. Seeing as how they put up with my inane comments and blood in the sink, I suppose I owe them that much.
The principal item on my birthday list this year is new boxers. I don't mean to brag, but apparently my junk is so vast and powerful that it can burst through any pair of boxers, even that solid titanium pair that I got at an old Soviet yard sale. (Boris, you damn shyster! You swore on Lenin's embalmed corpse that the underwear and the warhead were in perfect working condition!) While having a package that can burst forth through any cloth like an IED through an unarmored Humvee may seem impressive, it is burdensome when you're searching for durable and comfortable boxers. Finding both of those qualities in underwear like trying to find an invisible hay-colored needle in the proverbial haystack when you're working on a farm all day and Pa yells at you for not doing some miscellaneous farm chore, causing you to mope around in the cornfield at night. On the other end of the spectrum, some of my boxers are so tight that I'm getting blue balls simply from the blood being cut off to the entire region. It's sort of like there's a 1970s OPEC oil embargo in my pants. (If that's not a pickup line, I don't want to know what is.) If I can't have durability and comfort at the same time, then I urge the Drexel student community to buy me numerous pairs of boxers (size 32-34) to spare the fellows on my floor who have been exposed to more than their minimum required dose of my body. While some of them clearly salivate over the site of my almost-nude figure and would want to ravage it were I a homosexual, the majority of those brave men want the area between my chiseled 12-pack stomach (oh, it's possible) and my statuesque biker's thighs to be completely covered. Seeing as how they put up with my inane comments and blood in the sink, I suppose I owe them that much.
Viewing Comments 1 - 2 of 2
Give The Man Some Undies
posted 2/19/07 @ 6:02 PM EST
Let me verify this, ladies and gentlemen: This man really does need new underwear. You'd do well to take his advice. I mean, here's a man who willingly thought of the simile "torn like a housecat through a meatgrinder". (Continued…)
Dave Rockwell
posted 2/20/07 @ 1:26 PM EST
I must beg to differ. I am in possession of inside dirt indicating that Mr. Rockwell is the Imelda Marcos of boxer shorts. If he donated all the torn ones to the US Army for parachute cloth he'd still have enough left over to clothe half the orphans in Paris. (Continued…)
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