Next on PBS: Wild Underwear Trackers
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Let’s get one thing straight: I am not stealing my husband’s underwear. I’m not using them to buff the car, I’m not selling them on the black market, I’m not throwing them on stage during Yanni concerts. Any disappearance of said underwear has absolutely nothing to do with me.
This doesn’t stop me from getting the blame, however. Understand, this man has 7,000 pairs of underwear. There are small African countries with fewer combined pairs. But if the laundry goes ONE DAY past a week, all 7,000 pairs mysteriously disappear.
Setting: The dinner table 8 days after the last laundry day.
Wife: Please pass the salt.
Husband: (Passes the salt and tries to look small and helpless) Soooo...what are you doing tomorrow?
Wife: Grocery store, Costco, post office...why?
Husband: I may have to go to work without any underwear. (Twists face up in best imitation of abused puppy.) But that’s okay. I don’t need underwear. I don’t deserve underwear. (Sniff. Sniff.) I can just wear a dirty pair.
Wife: What happened to all your underwear?
Husband: I don’t know. I think you’re throwing them away.
The next day, I spend three hours folding pair after pair of boxers. The dryer just keeps spitting them out like some sort of crazed panty vending machine. Where the hell are they coming from? How does one man wear this much underwear? Exactly how many pairs is he wearing at any given time?
There is only one way to find out. I’m going panty tracking.
I’ve seen similar procedures on PBS with grizzly bears, so I feel confident I’ve got the basics. First, I’ll have to dart him. I’ll hide around the corner and wait for him to come home from work. “Honey, I’m ho...” Thunk. Once the tranquilizer takes effect, I’ll drag him down the hall by his ankles, weigh him, measure him and count his underpants. Then I’ll fit him with a tracking collar. Don’t worry. He’ll never notice. Once he starts to wake up, I’ll just distract him with tacos. He doesn’t notice anything when there are tacos.
The next day, I’ll follow him at a Department of Fish and Wildlife-approved distance with my radio antenna and an enormous pair of earphones. Beep. Beep. Beep. This will allow me to watch him in his natural habitat. Watch and count the daily underpant-usage. He puts on one pair, he uses another as a hat. He keeps a few in his pocket in case he needs to blow his nose and a few more in case someone else needs to blow their nose. He keeps a few in his briefcase to clean his computer monitor. He keeps a few more in case his computer monitor should want a hat, too. He keeps a few dozen in his gym bag to drop like breadcrumbs in case he can’t find his way back to his locker. He keeps a few hundred in the trunk of his car to drop like breadcrumbs in case he can’t find his way back home.
Then that night at dinner he’ll say, “Soooo...what are you doing tomorrow?”
Postscript: It’s not every man who doesn’t mind his wife writing about his underpants. What a guy, huh?
This doesn’t stop me from getting the blame, however. Understand, this man has 7,000 pairs of underwear. There are small African countries with fewer combined pairs. But if the laundry goes ONE DAY past a week, all 7,000 pairs mysteriously disappear.
Setting: The dinner table 8 days after the last laundry day.
Wife: Please pass the salt.
Husband: (Passes the salt and tries to look small and helpless) Soooo...what are you doing tomorrow?
Wife: Grocery store, Costco, post office...why?
Husband: I may have to go to work without any underwear. (Twists face up in best imitation of abused puppy.) But that’s okay. I don’t need underwear. I don’t deserve underwear. (Sniff. Sniff.) I can just wear a dirty pair.
Wife: What happened to all your underwear?
Husband: I don’t know. I think you’re throwing them away.
The next day, I spend three hours folding pair after pair of boxers. The dryer just keeps spitting them out like some sort of crazed panty vending machine. Where the hell are they coming from? How does one man wear this much underwear? Exactly how many pairs is he wearing at any given time?
There is only one way to find out. I’m going panty tracking.
I’ve seen similar procedures on PBS with grizzly bears, so I feel confident I’ve got the basics. First, I’ll have to dart him. I’ll hide around the corner and wait for him to come home from work. “Honey, I’m ho...” Thunk. Once the tranquilizer takes effect, I’ll drag him down the hall by his ankles, weigh him, measure him and count his underpants. Then I’ll fit him with a tracking collar. Don’t worry. He’ll never notice. Once he starts to wake up, I’ll just distract him with tacos. He doesn’t notice anything when there are tacos.
The next day, I’ll follow him at a Department of Fish and Wildlife-approved distance with my radio antenna and an enormous pair of earphones. Beep. Beep. Beep. This will allow me to watch him in his natural habitat. Watch and count the daily underpant-usage. He puts on one pair, he uses another as a hat. He keeps a few in his pocket in case he needs to blow his nose and a few more in case someone else needs to blow their nose. He keeps a few in his briefcase to clean his computer monitor. He keeps a few more in case his computer monitor should want a hat, too. He keeps a few dozen in his gym bag to drop like breadcrumbs in case he can’t find his way back to his locker. He keeps a few hundred in the trunk of his car to drop like breadcrumbs in case he can’t find his way back home.
Then that night at dinner he’ll say, “Soooo...what are you doing tomorrow?”
Postscript: It’s not every man who doesn’t mind his wife writing about his underpants. What a guy, huh?
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