NOTE: The following has very little to do with Vietnam. In fact, I know very little about Vietnam, apart from where it is and that a fat Marlon Brando once waddled around its jungles muttering, “The horror, the horror.” I did coach a soccer team with a man from Vietnam once, though. He was a real nice guy who had some mad soccer skills, even though I had a lot of trouble understanding him (although, to be fair, if I tried to order lunch in Ho Chi Minh City, I’d probably get a rectal exam. Unless that’s part of their culture. Who am I to judge?). Anyway...
As you’ve no doubt surmised (snooty word for “figgered out”), I often look at things in a, shall we say, wiseguy kind of way.
If I see something which strikes me as funny, I’m going to point it out or even correct what I think was a slip of the tongue, grammatically speaking (medically speaking is a whole ‘nother ball of wax).
That being the case, though, I have cut down on calling out the verbal and spelling gaffes of others, even though I thought I was being cute by doing so. I came to the conclusion that I was being somewhat of a douche.
However, I’m still looking. So, if you throw me a softball that I just can’t help put over the fence in a double-entendre manner (metaphors were “Two For a Dollar” at Wal-Mart yesterday), I probably won’t be able to help myself. It’s a sickness.
Two examples of things I found funny were the presence of urea in my heel balm (good news! I won’t get into that topic again. I don’t want the ASPCA to come knocking at my door for beating a dead horse) and that sign which proclaimed surprise when the sun blew up.
|NOTE: NOT the author|
I saw that they were “Hecho En Vietnam.” (Al’s Language Tip: This means, “Made in Vietnam” for those who took “History of Flan” in high school instead of language or who are too cheap to buy Rosetta Stone lessons).
This was all well and good. But, is underwear-making such a complicated science that it needs to be shipped overseas? Or is it so damn simple that the Vietnamese can handle it? It’s obviously a money thing, but, for cryin’ out loud, it’s only a cloth pouch for the boys, not sex robots.
As I looked at it further (not 'it' you dirty-minded pervs. I was still busy, if you know what I mean), I saw that, under the English writing, were washing and care instructions in Spanish.
Why not Vietnamese? Or do the Vietnamese not wear underwear? Or, as I suspect, are the Vietnamese so smart they don’t need to be told how to wash their frikkin’ drawers? I don’t know, maybe a combination of the two. It is refreshing to sometimes “be free,” after all.
Excuse me, who the hell irons their underwear!!??
I didn’t even press my tightey-whiteys in Navy boot camp.
On further deliberation, I guess maybe you’d want starchy drawers if you were visiting Michael Jackson’s gravesite (oooh, sorry. Too soon?) or the Archdiocese of Philadelphia (oooh, sorry. That was like my first wife’s cooking: tasteless).
So, maybe I oughta plug my iron in because there’s no sense in having wrinkles in my “gotchies.”
But, first, I think I’ll give that guy from the soccer team a call. Maybe he can give me some advice.