I may have reposted this before. Or not. I know for a fact that I've used this picture plenty of times before, though. This is just a shot of Christian Bale before he got famous. And Gary Coleman before he got dead.*
In any case, I plan on reheating old nuggets of trash from prior challenges to get you prepared for the 2015 Challenge (and nausea). Captain Captions will remain original because, after all, how difficult are they to write, really?
When this originally posted, the only one of you out there who read it (or at least commented) was Jenny. So, she can take a pass. Yeah, like the rest of you are being held against your will.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy. And, if you want to visit a blogger with real poetic talent, may I suggest Pat Hatt and the cat?
*This is a lie. I have no idea who these guys are. And, frankly, if I saw a group of dudes strolling down a road in their skivvies, I wouldn't want to know who they were.
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’)