Who likes Short Shorts

  A sturdy hold, but I think there was something up with the material.

  Living alone, I need to keep a substantial number of Y-fronts at any one time. This is due to how far away my mother lives away and not owning a washing machine myself. A couple of these three packs were perfect for my needs.

  I must say as I pulled on a fresh pair on the day of delivery, I instantly noticed how supporting they were of little Frank and his two pet bulldogs. They were a very soft feel and made me feel all warm and tingly. Not like some pairs I've owned that made poor Frank feel like he was being kettled during a peaceful protest turned bad.

  All was well until I paid a visit to the local funfair. Now, I can't blame the full unpleasantness of the ghost train on the pants, or in fact any of it. They shouldn't allow people to go on alone if they're going to have such scary things in there. I think it was when the carnival fellow jumped out and licked my face that I fouled myself in the most horrendously loose and smelly manner. I feel they should also have stricter control on the food hygiene at these traveling funfairs. The smell that presented itself to my new pants was distinctly similar to the three hotdogs I'd consumed shortly before embarking on the journey of dread (as I've come to call it).

  What happened next was even more unfortunate; the rugged fair owner had to close the ride for cleansing and publicly told everyone in attendance it was my fault. Due to having soggy pants, I was unable to flee, as I normally would; this resulted in me being cornered between the bearded woman booth and the hook-a-duck stand. I had to be removed by the police for my own safety.

  By the time I'd explained that I wasn't, as the crowd called me, a dirty tramp, I was, in fact, someone who had accidently filled his pants due to the above reasons, some of the recycled hotdogs had started to dry, down the back of the legs mainly but some within the pants also.

  As luck would have it I was visiting my mother a few days later and was able to get the pants in a hot wash much faster than I normally manage.

  Sadly the pair I was wearing the night of the funfair seemed to have stained, and in some places, glued themselves together. They are, for all intents and purposes, ruined, although I have taken the suggestion from Mother to use the soiled pair to polish my bicycle and a sterling job they are doing, too.

  My advice: if you’re going to visit the funfair wearing these pants, double bag, don’t go on the ghost train, and for God’s sake, don’t eat the hotdogs. The police might not be so quick to act in your area.

  -Brian

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