The Horror of the Wrong Underwear

September 20, 2014
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I hate your underwear. Maybe not yours, and no, not yours either, but that guy in the back there… you know who you are and you know the secret you’re hiding under those jeans.

Allow me to introduce the brief-style jock – the boxer short’s skimpy yet baggy cousin. It rides high on the hip to show your “koala ears” (those stray, side pubes) and never seems to be taut to your form. The color scheme seems to only ever stretch from jungle green, to grey or deep maroon.

Y fronts: the question is already right there in the name. Why would you buy them, why would you wear them and for gods sakes, why would you even take the chance of another human seeing you in them?

The Horror of the Wrong Underwear

You may remember them from when you were 6 years old or even from your dad’s modeling days where he’d sport them, and only them, in front of the T.V. with a can of beer rested on his knee.

Take this as a public service announcement: Jocks are not OK. If you’re wondering whether or not this includes your good self, just consult my easy to follow rule; “If you’re old enough to be having sex, you’re too old to be wearing jocks.”

When a girl takes off your pants you don’t want to give her the impression that you’d visited your parents earlier in the day, wet your pants, and had to resort to borrowing a pair of your dad’s grundies.

The Horror of the Wrong Underwear
Image: Featureflash /

If anyone were to attempt to pose a counter argument on the basis of comfort, I’d have one word for them: thongs. I know girls are always saying, “No, no, they’re actually really comfortable!” And I agree, they are. Now. But I also know that it’s because we have tricked our bodies into putting up with ridiculous fashions, all in the name of an invisible panty line. The only reason a lacey piece of string up your ass could be deemed as being comfortable is because we’ve been wearing them since we were 15 and have trained our asses to be less receptive to physical annoyances (and intrusions).

I can’t even figure out how boxers could be less comfortable. At least with them your boys are always huddled in behind the safety of the (more appropriately colored) cloth. In jocks there always seems to be one half of a testicle making a cameo appearance out the side, like that bald guy on Letterman poking his head in shot to say something unfunny. I’ll admit though that geometry, fitting shapes in and around one another, has never been my strong point, genitals or otherwise…

The visual stimulus that a throbbing erection causes in a heterosexual female cannot be denied. However, wrapping said erection, in baggy, thigh-baring bloomers depletes all carnal urges to take it in your hands or anywhere else. It’s akin to taking a delicious, mouth-watering cheeseburger and placing it inside a diaper.

If you do find yourself in a jock-wearing predicament, where sex is almost certainly on the cards, just do what I do and throw them in the nearest bin. Pretend you really have to pee and stop off at a gas station or fast food joint, en route to the love den. And if it happens to be Taco Bell, you don’t even need to worry about getting strange looks because let’s face it, their bins are probably half-full of discarded undies already!

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