Going Comando And My Stinky Ass

For some odd reason I decided to go commando this morning. I have absolutely no idea where this came from, I had underwear on at one point this morning but decided to take them off at the last moment. As I reflect on this later I can’t imagine what my logic was on this one. You see, I’m a huge fan of briefs. They keep everything nice and tidy, up close and in check, no wandering allowed. Boxers let your junk float around too much, you never know where it’s going to be at, left, right, somewhere in between, you have no control. I’ve sat on important parts wearing boxers before. Which is why I can’t understand why I went without today. Another advantage of the briefs is when you get an erection (I say “when” and not “if” because I get them often, like 15 times a day), the briefs keep it somewhat concealed by locking it up close to your body. Although they are often slightly painful erections since your penis has no place to go, it still remains hidden as you walk around, even in dress pants. With boxers I either have to remain sitting till it subsides or flip it up and tuck it behind the belt to keep it secure. Or I guess the third option would be to walk around with what looks like an eight inch bratwurst in my pocket. While I have done that at a bar and received a bj from a woman who noticed it (true story, although she tried to kick my ass when she found out the whole bar knew about it), walking around work like that would be a little unacceptable. Shit, I just looked down right now and it was noticeable, had to shift it over. And I constantly have this fear of shitting myself. With my rotten ass, I believe holding in a fart could possibly kill me some day. I can’t keep these toxic gases in my ass, eventually I think they’d infect my whole body and I’d either need a blood transfusion asap or a release valve stabbed into my intestines to let them out. In other words, I gas often. Not in the bathroom, but just anywhere. I believe it was in Along Came Polly when Philip Seymour Hoffman, while at an art show, informed Ben Stiller that he had “sharted.” A shart would be a juicy fart, a fart where a little shit gets out, hence the word shart. And all the farting I do throughout the day increases my fear of shitting myself. Usually, with underwear, you might be able to salvage the day by just taking off your soiled underwear and throwing them away (which brings me to a funny story of the hairdresser walking in the bathroom to find a black guy washing his penis in the sink, guess he had sex with someone other than his wife and the smell was pretty bad, G suggested he just toss his underwear). I almost felt the need to do this just yesterday walking into Walmart. I wasn’t quite sure if I had shit myself while farting but decided I’d go to a desolate area in the store and see if I smelled anything coming from my backside (after doing the sniff test I noticed I was in the bra and panty section). But without underwear on you’d be shitting in your dress pants, pretty much ending all hope of a respectable recovery. “Uh, boss, I’m sorry but I think I have to go home.” Boss’s face scrunching up from the smell. “Yeah, it seems as though I have shit myself once again. I know I promised I wouldn’t do it again after the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, but I had Mexican food last night and it just slipped out. The sad thing is I didn’t notice it for half an hour and now it’s spread out and pretty much embedded in my pants.” [Boss is flapping his hand to fend off the stench, pointing at the door for me to leave as his face turns red from not breathing, but I go on.] “I promise to rectify (rectumfy?) this issue in the future. I’m sure I can find some device other than my thumb to stick up my ass to prevent this. Oh crap, I think I just did it again. Yes, yes I did, I can feel it running down my leg.” [Boss grabs his garbage can.] “I can see you’re not feeling well yourself so I’m going to leave now. I’ll see you tomorrow morning with unsoiled pants on.” [Leave boss’s office as he’s hurling chunks in his waste basket.] So today I’m going to be extra careful about many things like sitting down, zipping up my fly (ouch), and obviously farting. Pretty sad that I’m contemplating if it would be worth it to shit my pants to get out of work.

And I just realized I can’t remember the last time I whacked off. This is sad. What used to be an everyday bonding of hand and penis hasn’t happened in over a week. Trust me on this one, this has never happened in my entire life (from 6th grade on). I plan on fixing this soon. And ladies, please don’t offer up your services to help me fix this (unless you’re bringing a friend or two, or if you can swallow eight inches, or…), whacking off is a sacred ritual between a man and his penis carried out on a regular basis. This explains why I’ve been acting like a little bitch lately, I just need to whack it. Now I know what I’m doing this evening.