Lately, I seen to be missing numerous pairs of boxers. I never had them fully inventoried, but I had a rough idea of how many of each type I had in my laundry cycle. I was a fan of the solid black Hanes that were a little tighter than the rest, although not boxer briefs, and fit well under my Levis 505 low rise boot cuts. I also just received two pair of boxer briefs from my mother when she was visiting Canadia. The fact that my mother is still buying me underwear is an analysis all to itself. One pair was white, with the logo of les Habitants de Montreal on the left leg, and the other black with the NHL logo. I’m pretty sure I had 3 pair of the black Hanes.
I’ve been feeling a bit low on undies lately, so I did an impromptu inventory. The numbers bore the truth: 1 pair of black Hanes, and the NHLers were nowhere to be found. What the fuck? Where’s my fucking underwear? Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Oh, you must have left them at the house of the last fat slut with whom you shared bodily fluids, or perhaps they’re out back of the Talk of the Town in the giant barrel of gravel ashtray.” Viable theories both, but truth be told, both impossibilities. I’ve been somewhat less than prolific in my slut slaying as of late, and I’m also very careful to leave foreign residences and hot LZs with whatever garments were upon my person upon entry. To the residence. I run a pretty tight ship in this regard, and I would be fairly certain that leaving an enemy encampment sans undergarments would leave a somewhat permanent memory that something was missing. This being said, I have no recollection whatsoever of doing the walk of pride commando, therefore it hasn’t happened, not that there have been many walks of pride in my parade route this season.
So where’s my fucking underwear? I have a theory. I think my roommate stole them.
I have had a girl living with me for the past four months. It was a strictly roommate situation, with no romantic or sexual leanings. She was a pretty good roommate, I must say. But she just moved out at the beginning of the month, and, oddly, moved in to the place across the street. I think the owners are out of town for a few weeks or something, and she might be staying there for free. I’m not really sure. Additionally, she’s a yoga girl. I have a theory that all these Whole Foods, yoga types are secretly plotting to take over the world, and I don’t trust ’em. In any event, my ex-roommate yoga girl now lives across the street.
When she lived with me, she would occasionally return from some location, and if I were home, kiddingly say something like, “Did you go through my underwear while I was gone?”, or some other phrase insinuating that I had an underwear fetish or other desire to riffle through her panties. Now I’m a freak, and I’ve got sex on my mind pretty much 24/7, but I assure you that I have no underwear fetish. I like a nice thong/g-string/t-back on a girl, and I find it attractive in a trashy kind of way when they stick out above her low cut jeans, but I was never one to enjoy the underwear as its own separate entity, non-inclusive of the girl. When a stray set gets left at my house, the most pleasure I get from them is when I huck them into one of the “beads and panties” trees scattered around the mountain, adjacent to the lifts. Usually I favor the one on East River. It’s nice, when recovering from an epic North Face run on that chair, to look to the right and see the panties that got left at your house one night. I like that feeling. That shit’s as warm and fuzzy as it gets, baby.
Being a former professional student of psychology, and remaining an intent observer of human behaviour, I now see these remarks as little windows that allow me to look deeper into her psyche, potentially. Did she unintentionally foreshadow her very own actions, revealing her true nature and identity long before the crimes were committed? Did she, using the psychological phenomenon of transference, project her desires upon me? I know one thing…this would make one hell of a Scooby Doo episode.
So where’s my fucking underwear? I don’t know. All I know is that they ain’t in my underwear drawer, they ain’t in the laundry, and I ain’t wearin’ ’em.. I wouldn’t care so much if it were my smiley face boxers with the gappy fly, or the Calvin Kleins that are too short and made from grade C cotton. But these were my FAVES. I really do not want to be confronted with the task of trying to find the exact same makes and models. And I’ll never replace the NHL boxer briefs. Fuck, man, I know a few puck fucks that would have been powerless against that pair. Fuckin’ Canuck panty droppers, those. How am I going to replace that tool, that arrow in my quiver? Tabernac!
I don’t know where my boxers went. It makes me sad that they’re gone. I form close, personal bonds with the objects in my life that do me right, that perform well, that look good, that I like. I don’t want to go buy new ones. I want the old ones. And some are irreplaceable. Damn it all to hell. I bet she took ’em. Why does she want my underwear? What the hell is she doing with them? Freak.
The online e-drivel of Huck Knuckler 