Occasionally, I'll write a poem. Unlike Pat Hatt and the cat, though, I'm not terribly talented. But, hey, you can't go wrong with Gary Coleman in his skivvies.
NOTE: It's not really Gary Coleman. Rather, it's a little black man with Beyonce thighs.
April 21st-Brought To You By the Letter 'U'
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’)
|As always, Mr. Coleman could not be reached for comment.|