Well, now I’ve done it.

At some point when I was in tenth grade, I arbitrarily decided that I would no longer wear underwear. It wasn’t based on something sexual (I was a somewhat late bloomer who didn’t really do anything with a girl -or boy- until I was seventeen) nor was it a rebellion against huge money-mongering underwear corporations (I’ve accepted that the Hanes Corporation will have total control over the Western Hemisphere by 2012; the Mayans knew it) nor was it a fashion statement (I have perpetual plumber’s crack regardless of underwear usage). I just stopped wearing tighty-whiteys, boxers, or anything between my exterior clothing and genitalia. But, in case of… well, I really don’t know what, I’ve had this pair of boxer shorts for like six years. As most of their usage was very infrequent, and typically by women who had just enjoyed the best thirty to forty five seconds of their lives, they were in good shape. Kinda like a garage-kept car.

But now I’ve done it. After a night of horrifying intoxication during which car-bombs, Jack Daniels, kamikazes, straight Guinness, gin, and fucking MEAD were consumed, I’ve done it.

There were two Ukrainian girls who were drinking with my two friends and I; I made out with one and then snorted Adderall with her in the bar; she was actually the source of the mead– she had a bottle of it that she had picked up for a friend, but decided to break it out in the bar after we were cut off, which got us thrown out. We left snorted more Adderall on the hood of someone’s car, killed the mead, exchanged numbers and parted. I vaguely recall going to a Wawa after that and shoplifting a bunch of stuff, and coming home. My chafed cock is a testament to the abortive attempt at masturbation, and then I passed out on my floor naked. When I awoke to some fucking assholes marching around and making a fucking ruckus about some fucking “Independence Day” (whatever the fuck that is, my mind was not comprehending that today is July 4^th) and fireworks going off in my head, my course was clear: bong hits. Lots of them. And a huge greasy breakfast to fortify my system for the terrible things it’s gonna endure tonight. Well, that just didn’t happen. All the back story about last night is a (most likely failed) attempt to justify what was about to happen.

I put on my one and only pair of boxers (they’re comforting, and I needed comfort; my hands were kinda shaky and there’s a sadistic midget on PCP with a hacksaw and a jackhammer running around in my head) took one enormous bong hit, coughed once and completely shit myself. Not like a little Hershey squirt, but a spattering, sputtering, runny-eggs avalanche that had cascaded down my inner thigh to my knee ON BOTH LEGS by the time I made it the seven feet to my bathroom. Five paper towels later, I was able to traverse downstairs to the bathroom with the shower and scald my rectum. But now my boxers were upstairs in the toilet (I just didn’t know what to do; I panicked) . I was uncertain; scared, too. I was thinking to myself that there was a good chance that the boxers would get up and rampage around the city, causing horrifying damage and killing hundreds, given the absolutely demonic nature of that shit. But, on the other hand, was thinking: should I try to save the life of the noble pair of boxer shorts that (unwillingly) interposed themselves between the most horrifying shotgun blast of green apple splatters the world has ever seen and my bed? (Because if I hadn’t put them on, seriously, my bed would be fucking ruined. I’d probably have to burn down my house just to purge them from the world.)

But, because of a selfless act by my orange and yellow undergarments (they have pictures of oranges and lemons on them), your home is not being shredded by a bizarre and terrifying bed-fecal matter hybrid demon that only wants to rape your soul and rend your flesh. So, do I and my washing machine attempt a… shitsercism? Do I need someone with a religious background? Even if I get a priest, will the Power of Christ compelling my feces, be a strong enough compulsion? If you put Jesus in the ring with that shit that just reverse-raped my rectum, my money wouldn’t be on the Son of God. Actually, I think I hear something moving around up there.

I’ll part with this, because I owe it to my boxers to do what I can to save them/stop them: if you hear an enormous flapping sound accompanied by the worst smell you’ve ever smelt, duck and cover. Or shoot yourself. Because you don’t want to look up and see an orange and brown version of Mothra that smells like a dead skunk stuffed with rotten eggs and marinated in a ninety year-old wolf pussy for about four days. Wish me luck. I go forth to do battle for all our souls. If things go badly, tell everyone I’m really, really, really sorry.