Monthly Archives: January 2012

Underwear and Lip Zits

So as some of you may know from one of my previous posts, one of the standard things that I ask for on my Christmas list is gift cards. This year was much the same. What did I do with those gift cards? I bought, among other things, underwear. Lots and lots of underwear.

Why did I buy so much underwear? Well, you see, I fully believe that underwear is the true path to happiness. Think about it. Everyone loves their underwear. Think about how mad you were the first time that you ever lost a beloved pair of underwear in the laundry room at college. Or god forbid the mourning period that occurs if you have to actually decide to throw out a liked pair of underwear because they were so worn out. But on the positive end, think of how happy buying (and wearing) underwear feels.

It’s strange, underwear is one of the few things that (hopefully) only a select number of people get to see, and yet we put so much emphasis on having good looking underwear that reflects us as people. Are you old/a dad? Here are some plain white briefs. Are you a thug/gangster/14-year-old white kid? Have these plaid boxers that are so good looking that you want everyone to see you in them. Are you a pretty cool, funny, normal guy that everyone likes? Enjoy these boxer briefs, because now you can get the best of both worlds (I like the compression-like feel on my thighs, but at the same time, the boys need room to breath). I’m assuming it works the same for women, too, but I don’t feel like pissing off a whole bunch of women with mass generalizations, so one of my lady blog readers can go ahead and figure that one out.

But as I mentioned before, the act of buying underwear is quite possibly the greatest feeling in the world.  It’s like heroin to me at times. Everything about it. You walk into Kohl’s and look around the underwear section to see what the deals are (usually buy one, get one half-off). Then you look through all the packs of underwear to try and find the perfect set to add to your collection. Granted, after you buy a good amount of underwear, you start discrediting certain packs of underwear at the store because you don’t want to have duplicate pairs of underwear (because you don’t want people to accidentally catch a glimpse of them and then think you’re disgusting for not changing underwear when really, you totally fucking did).  But on the other hand, you sometimes hit the jackpot.  You find the four pack with four different shades of color that you don’t have yet. And then you take a closer look and find out that, not only are they different colors, but Fruit of the Loom now has striped boxer briefs. Talk about euphoria. And then the great feeling doesn’t even stop when you leave the store. When you get home you get to go through your current selection and throw away the pairs that you don’t want anymore like your boxers (hey, I used to be a 14-year-old white kid), or that one pair of underwear that is that really ugly gray color.

But perhaps my favorite underwear moment (of course I’m going to share this with you (And no, it doesn’t have to do with Valium)) came about a year ago. Imagine if you will, I’m in my apartment on a Saturday night, folding my last load of laundry before I go out for the night. I’m in a hurry, so I fold as quickly as I can and shove everything into the drawers. I leave, get hammered, come home, and go to bed. I wake up the next day with an incredible hangover, so I go to the kitchen, down about three glasses of water, and hit the shower. I get out and stumble back into my room to get dressed.  Now, like I said, I just kind of shoved all the laundry into the dresser, so when I opened the drawer there wasn’t much order, so I ended up grabbing a pair of underwear from the center of the stack. I put them on, and I felt something special, something magical. They were still warm.  STILL WARM. It was, like, eleven hours later. I’ve never felt anything so amazing in my life. It’s almost indescribable (but I’ll try). You remember the first time you got a zit on the edge of your lip or nostril? And you thought to yourself, “Hell, I’ll just pop it, that’s what you do to zits.” Little did you know that lip zits are apparently filled with battery acid, and makes that one side of your face feel like the skin is being ripped away and then the eye on that side of the face starts to uncontrollably tear up as if it’s listening to “Space Oddity” by David Bowie for the first time (I mean really listening to it (Nothing gets at me more than beautiful songs with a heartbreaking turn)). Take that same intensity, but make it the complete opposite feeling. And then take the ecstasy of that and combine it with the relief that is felt from the “Not pregnant :)” text.  Then, and only then, do you even come close to understanding the glory that I felt in my pants that one day.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I hope you take this insight to heart, and embrace the next time you buy yourself some underwear.

Can you hear me Major Tom?

-Panda


My Dentist Told a Sex Joke

So about a year or so ago, I was at the dentist.  It was the first time in about five years that I had gone to the dentist, and so I ended up having a bunch of cavities.  I know, I know, I should go to the dentist more, but there’s this one little issue that I have about hating every dentist in the worlds fucking guts.  That, and when it comes to dealing with them scraping my mouth with metal shit and drilling holes, I am quite a little pansy.  And so, since I am such a pansy about it, I figured, “Hey, maybe I’ll just try that sedation dentistry shit.  Worse comes to worst I’ll at least have been able to take some sweet drugs.”  And sweet drugs did I take.  I honestly believe the world may be a better place if we simply pumped Valium into the drinking water supply.  (Did you know that Valium works as a muscle relaxant?  So the messages from the brain to the muscles are much fewer and far between.  This can be dangerous, because if you’re laying down and you want to stand up, it takes your legs about ten seconds of slowly lower your weight onto your legs until they’re actually ready, otherwise you’ll start to fall.  But not your standard fall.  I mean like that video of those ladies at the end of the Iron Man race who were so destroyed that it looked as if their legs just didn’t really want to do what they wanted them to do.  That kind of falling.  (Also, for those of you who care to know, ejaculation takes place when the male’s pelvic muscles engage in a series of quick muscles contractions, forcing the ejaculate from the genitals.  Muscle relaxants slow the brain signals and muscle contractions, so when you have sex (or masturbate, I suppose) on muscle relaxants, you aren’t really finished when you think you’re finished, and ten minutes later you think you’ve just pissed your pants because it gets warm and then you go to the bathroom and realize what it actually is so you just kind of get really confused while you look for some tissues and a new pair of underwear.  So I’ve heard.))  But if everyone took a little bit of Valium, nobody would get road rage because nobody would ever feel like driving faster than 45 MPH on the highway, domestic violence rates would go down because every red-necked, wife-beating deadbeat would realize, “Meh, she ain’t that bad,” and political debates would have just the mildest, ever so slight tingle of tolerability.

But either way, let us fast forward to what happened after the procedures.  I woke up in my bed, (after all those drugs generally the only thing you really want to do is sleep) groggy and sore.  Just like I do after any bender, I try to recall just what the fuck actually happened.  I remember going in, sitting down in the chair, and then waking up in my bed ten hours later.  So first and foremost, I’m trying to figure out how I can get a hold of more of these drugs.  But then I decide to deal with that another time, and go downstairs to talk to my dad.

My dad was the one who transported my stoned ass to and from the dentist.  So I asked him what happened when I was there.  For the most part, apparently, I was very good, until I gained more consciousness and the ability to talk back.  The general policy for any time that a patient is sedated is to transport the patient from the doctors’ office to their car via wheelchair.  I did not like this.  Apparently, I said, “I don’t need a fucking wheelchair.  I’ve got fucking legs.”   I’m not on the best terms with the support staff at my dentist’s office anymore.  And then, I’m told, I became quite hungry on the way home.  My dad asked me, “Do you want a burger?  We can go to Kopp’s if you want.  Or do you want something big, like a Whopper?”  “No,” I replied, “Whoppers are for pussies.  I want Wendy’s,” (What an interesting choice of words, as you will see).   I apparently only ate like, half of it before I went to my room and passed out.

But then as I was truly coming around, I noticed that the underside of my tongue was quite sore.  I went to the mirror and looked, and the son-of-a-bitch dentist carved me up good.  You know how your tongue has that connector piece underneath it?  Well, mine was very large, in that it went fairly far up the underside of my tongue, almost to the tip.  This, apparently, isn’t the way that everyone else’s tongue is.  Apparently, normal people’s tongue connector doesn’t go very far up the tongue at all.  And it looked as if my dentist had decided to just go right on ahead and cut my connector off.  So I’m pissed, because I all of a sudden just have these open sores on the underside of my tongue that hurt anytime I eat/drink/talk/breathe/hold my breath/brush my teeth/etc.  And then I get to thinking, “why the hell did he do that?”  Well, my friends, let me take you back to my appointment before this sedation procedure.

I was sitting there, and the assistant was doing her thing with cleaning and checking my teeth, when she said, “Oh, you’re tongue-tied.”  I had no idea what she was talking about, and she proceeded to tell me that the connector underneath my tongue shouldn’t be that far forward.  I brushed it off because I truly did not give a single shit about my tongue connector.  So then my dentist came in.  Here is how the dialogue went from the moment he noticed my tongue connector:

Dentist:  Oh, you’re still tongue tied.

Me:  Yeah, I guess, I just found out that this wasn’t “normal” like 3 minutes ago.

Dentist:  Well, don’t worry, we can take care of that, just a snip or two.  It’ll take like two minutes.

Me:  I mean, I don’t know about that, I haven’t had an issue with it.

Dentist:  You’d be surprised.  It’ll give your tongue more mobility and range of movement. It’ll come in handy, trust me.

And as he said “trust me,” he winked.

At first, I didn’t make anything of it, but then I realized.  Did he really just do that?  Did he really just make a sex joke to one of his patients?  Did he really literally just commit malpractice for the sake of helping me become a better lay?  Does he realize that I can never go back to his office again, not because I’m offended, but because the waiting room has pictures of everyone in his family, including his wife, and I won’t be able to get that horribly disturbing image out of my head.  Shit, no wonder this guy has five kids already.

As awkward as my entire time with that dentist was, he wasn’t so bad.  I mean, he gave me great drugs, made me healthier, and helped my performance.  Nevertheless, he was my dentist, and I don’t want my dentist making sex jokes.  Not if he’s going to be spending so much time in my mouth.  But anyway, to anyone who felt really uncomfortable reading this, sorry.  And to any women who have spent roughly 15-25 (depending on how drunk I may have been) minutes of mildly regrettable and thoroughly average passion with me, 1) I am so, so sorry; and 2) you can thank my dentist for it not being truly regrettable and below average.

-Panda