If you want to give this a pass, I certainly understand. After all, why read warmed-over reruns when you can watch warmed-over reruns on TV? I hesitated to do this, but decided to go ahead since the A-Z Challenge is so close that I don't want to use what little brainpower I have writing something original. Look on the bright side, next week, Penwasser Place will go completely dark as I get ready for April. So this is better than nothing. Maybe. Well, next week will have...uh...reruns of the Passover and Easter posts. And a Facebook Funny.
But, don't worry, April will feature 26 new posts. I just don't know what they are yet.
So, sit back and enjoy this little underwear bon-mot from 2011.
The Underwear Wars
Come, listen, my children, from everywhere
to the epic battles of underwear.
Commenced first over briefs, called tighty-whiteys,
that were liked by men both weak and mighty.
But, soon, a young woman began to fret
and wonder why she wasn’t pregnant yet.
For, you see, the problem lay in the fit
of briefs which pulled the sack near where he’d sit.
Thus cooked, the sperm all had no place to hide.
Victims of body temperature, boiled and died.
No happy eggs and no mother-to-be
Just a man and his wife and their color TV
(NOTE: Hey, it rhymed. Sue me.)
A doctor’s care being her last resort,
she bought him some boxers, just like gym shorts.
She told him their loose, casual fit
will keep his “boys” far from where he sits.
With them cooled, his swimmers will be able
to find a place at the “Mommy Table.”
But, he whined and moaned, “I hate the big hole.
It’s a big inconvenient ‘Whack-A-Mole’.”
So, to shut up her husband and give her relief
She then thought to buy him some boxer briefs.
Not quite as snug as the white linen sacks
they gave him the comfort that boxers lacked.
Excited over this underwear kind
The wife hustled home, but only to find.
Her man, at the doorway, happily bare
He grinned. No shirt, no pants, no underwear.
“Honey,” he said, “I’ve got a great plan
that I’m happy to say you’ll understand.
“For, just like Kramer or Marlon Brando,
No undies for me. I’m going commando.”
Epilogue: In a coma, the wife is not expected to live. Her living will stipulates that her eggs be harvested for the local in-vitro fertilization clinic.
(NOTE: Okay, so I’m no Shakespeare. But, I couldn’t think of anything else that rhymed with ‘commando’)