Thursday, July 30, 2015

The Dangers of being an Urban Commando

It’s no big secret that I’m not a fan of underwear, if it was, well, pretty much I just destroyed that one didn’t I?  It’s a personal choice for my own comfort and it’s not every one’s preference, much like peanut butter pickle omelettes.  I see underwear like those little thin cardboard sleeves some of those there fancy coffee places give you with your coffee – totally useless and wasteful.  Why not just go back to a thicker plied cup? 
Oh why, you heathen?  Thinner cups are more ecologically responsible; by using them we save a tree and help the environment, you see, tee hee.” 
I got news for you eco-nut jobs – it ain’t helpin’ shit, no matter if they are made of recycled materials or not. Five minutes after most people get their coffee and it cools down those little sleeves are discarded – judging from the looks of the ditches and gutters of the streets – wherever the person is, and not in a garbage can.  Unless you’re a politician who can join the Liberal party, it happens to everything that gets in the way, it’s seen as inconsequential and bothersome therefore tossed off rather than held onto until the coffee is drunk.  That sleeve then becomes an ecological hazard and unsightly litter that grows moldy.  Underwear is the same way in my view, it may serve a purpose but it’s not a necessary one and is really more trouble than it’s worth….especially at $10 bucks a shot ($20 if you’re looking to put some fancy saying or face on the damn things – why the hell is that done anyway?  If you’re looking to be with someone and getting undressed the last thing on your mind should be “say, what do you think of Taz’s nose bulging out like that?”  If the chick you’re with is more into what you have on your underwear rather than what’s under it, you’re in a whole pickle of trouble, nit wit). 
However, as I said, it’s a personal preference thing – though I have noticed that those who prefer undies have a tendency to look down upon us drawer-less , just as the squares looked down upon the hippies back in the sixties for believing in free love (which to be honest I just can’t believe – there’s  no such thing as free love, there’s always some sort of price tag involved such as “let’s cuddle” ,  a high price indeed, my friends, a high price indeed)
In my little circle of friends I am the lone freedom lover.  They abide by my decision to let the wind roll my boys where they may but each has their own opinion on why.  Maggie, the pragmatist of the bunch believes that “you like the air conditioning aspect – you’re a pig and that means you sweat a lot.  I understand that, I mean hot days and bras aren’t the best of friends either but at least I’m still perky while you look like you have very knobby knees”. 
Jules takes a more lofty approach to the reason why the commando lifestyle choice appeals to me: “It’s a psychological reaction – much like your reaction to ties – you feel constrained and from your choices of subject matter all your creativity is located in your groin.  You fear that by covering your creativity you’ll lose it and thereby lose your delusion that you’re unique and end up becoming just another mindless suit.”
Terry takes the more measured stand:  “Mentally you’re still a gutter slut and you still are living the gutter slut motto ‘be prepared’ – you can’t get over that mental block that there may be a situation where you are wham bam thank you ma’am, let’s get off before your old man gets out of the can.”
Of course there are other ways of rationalizing the underwear-less, or commando state of mind….
The Sting commando logic:
If you love someone, set them free”  As every man knows their penis and balls have their own personality, their own likes and dislikes so really it’s not that difficult to give them human characteristics, right?  Uhm, hang on, let me cover them so they don’t hear your response – you’ll hurt their feelings if you’re negative, don’t you know.
The cowboy commando logic:
Shit ya’ll, it’s quicker to stand up in the saddle and do an unzip an’ a twist, pull it out and take it out a might, take yer whizz, stuff ‘er back in an’ it’s done – no damn material to cut off the flow or to hold down screwing up yer hold on the reins.”
The sexologists’ commando logic:
Underwear serves two purposes for a man.  The first, like the bra, is to hold the penis and scrotum in a more compact and secure form.  The second is to protect the scrotum from becoming chafed from the traditionally rough material men’s apparel is made from.  However, if a man does not wear underwear and stays away from tight pants, the effects can be quite gratifying for his lover.  The constant contact of the material against the head of the penis during the course of the day desensitizes it thereby increasing the resistance to the rubbing of it through vaginal, anal, oral, or a deserted and mossy hole of a sultry looking tree thus elongating the time of release for the man, or simply it increases a man’s stamina by numbing the fucker.”
The twenty year old Dairy Queen Server commando logic:
Ew, why did you tell me that for?  I just asked if you wanted cream in your coffee – perv.”
Then there is my own reasoning:  I’m not that swift in the brain department plus I’m rather lazy.  One less thing I have to remember to do in the mornings means that there is less danger that I’ll forget that it’s inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.  I’ve never regretted my commando choice or had cause to rethink my decision and in fact I had the rightness of my decision affirmed.
You see, last week my boss and I were working on some spot welding for a metal farm shed, nothing major, usually, but in this case, I couldn’t have foreseen the problems.  See, my boss, though he has been in the construction biz for over twenty years he has never built anything until this spring.  He came in as the owner’s son and immediately went to the sales, he didn’t care how things were put together just as long as they were at the time he needed them to be.  Now, for some strange reason, since he sold the majority of the company, he has decided to learn as much as he can…from me of all people.
 In hindsight, it was my fault, after all, when he said he could drive a bobcat and ended up destroying more than what he was supposed to.  When I gave him an air gun because he said he knew how to use them, he ended up putting two six inch nails through his thigh.  So when I handed him the acetylene torch because he said he knew how to use it I really should have considered how much he had known prior.  One of the most important things about using the torch is awareness; you make sure you know where the hoses are and you make yourself aware about where the flame of the torch is pointing.
Boss man didn’t do this; no, he lit the torch and started walking to the first place needing to be cut – without looking at the placement of the hoses and more importantly, the placement of his fellow coworker – me.  He tripped but like a real trooper he kept his hand on the oxygen lever, making sure that the flame just increased its size as he fell…into my lap.
I’m not a runner, hell, I’m not even a jogger, but at that moment when I saw the flames lick up the crotch of my jeans and wave high without disappearing…I became faster than a six jalepeno chili dog after eating the worm in a bottle of good tequila.  I ran out of the shop and across the road to the dugout that was there.  The dugout hadn’t been in use this spring or summer so the water that was in it hadn’t been mixed by anything but deer and the rains we’ve been having.  I sat in there for five minutes letting the slime envelop and saturate my jeans and the soothing sensation on my scrotum. 
I should have gone home, or to the doctor, something, but I was pissed; besides the only damage was that the flame had managed to burn off some of the seaming in the middle of my jeans.  A quick check told me that while it was tender, no major damage.  That meant only one thing; this could not go unpunished.  Boss man apologized profusely, offered to drive me any where but I told him that I wanted this job done, so lets get back to work. We did indeed go back to work, but I made sure that we worked close together and that my tools were on the floor where I would have to bend down to get them.  I also made sure that boss man only knew about the cuts that needed to be down where he would have to be down on his haunches or on his knees, and as I said, we went back to work.
I think at this point it would only be appropriate to give a visual in order to understand what my boss had to contend with:  ever watched one of those birthing shows?  How they show the crowing of the baby’s head as it comes through the vaginal opening all whitish and just a hint of redness to it?  Now replace that image with about a three and half inch rip in the seam of a pair of jeans and a scrotum ssssllllooowwwlllyyyy slipping out as a person is bending over, then once one testicle has popped out the weight pulls the other testicle out quickly and the scrotum just dangles there for the merest of seconds..bobbing…weaving…before slowly withdrawing back into that hole in the seam to await its next chance at glorious freedom.  The other factor to visualize is that after several ins and outs, the scrotum becoming more and more rawer with each foray into the open air between the legs, the wet jeans starting to dry with that odiferous boggy smell adding to the experience. I don’t care who you are, that, my friends must be a horrific sight to behold; in fact I bet that could even make the most gayest of man swear off of teabagging for life, but for a straight man…the psychological damage must be immense.  Boss man hasn’t been able to look me in the eyes since and seems to turn away really fast when I make the initial movements to turn around and bend.  In the quiet of the port-a-potty I have heard moans and the chant, “the horror…the horror”.
It was revenge, oh sweet revenge, alright.  However revenge is never without its price; a scrotum against denim is bad enough, but when you add the scraping of the scrotum against the rough seams of the wet jeans….well, I think I would have rather had him burn the fucking thing.  By the time I could no longer take the pain and went home, stripped and popped myself in a cool bath my boys were redheads.  Walking for the next few days was sheer torture, concentrating was almost impossible.
The point?  What the hell do you need a point for?  Sheesh.  If had been wearing underwear my revenge would not have occurred; I took two lemons and made lemonade…not really, I suppose I could have simply gone up and pissed on boss man but like the tension in my bladder it would have been briefer than what the situation called for…

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