My new drawers arrived yesterday. Not chest of drawers or any kind of furniture; I received a fresh pair of endurance rider's underwear, made for those equestrians who are in the minority, us men! My drawers came from Canada, land of snow, sleet and freezing rain. The box was so cold, freshly delivered by Federal Express, covered with customs' stamps that indicated it had been inspected by both Canadian and American authorities. These days nothing travels anywhere without a thorough search. I began wondering how many hands had fondled my new briefs, before I even put them on? I opened the box, and noticed some frost covering my new undergarments. I decided to put them into the microwave (I set the timer at two minutes), to thaw them out before trying them on for the first time. I wanted them nice and toasty warm, especially since we've had some freakishly cold weather here in Florida for this time of year (some sort of Global Blizzard). I'll post the email address where you can get your own pair later, so ya'll can order them, if they work out, since, I guess I'm kind of getting paid to endorse this product (Note to my gal, Val: Eat your heart out!). Heck, I'm at that age where I'd pay Paddi to take a picture of me wearing these things and publish it somewhere (my pride and ego flew out the window, together, attached at the wing tips, years ago). It's always been my desire to compete with Truman as the best dressed male endurance rider in America. Maybe, if I had a bottle of Moosehead (let's keep it Canadian) in my hands, I could get paid twice for the one photo. A pic of me, wearing my Harry Potter glasses, dressed only in the briefs, with a bottle of Canadian beer, and, don't forget the helmet. You always have to wear a helmet; it's Karl's rule 101 of endurance safety. You never know what you're going to run into, all dressed up, ready to ride. haha. (I was wondering if my wife would allow that Swedish Bikini Swim Team to join me in this photo; remember them?) Paddi, the inventor of this undergarment thought it might be a clever gimmick to send me a free pair if I agreed to comment on it. You remember Paddi, she's that Canadian female who likes to speak Southern and says things like, "Ya'll come back now, eh." She told me I can write about her product freely; say whatever I wish, which is kind of like giving Bill Clinton an unlimited charge card and the keys to the local Bordello, but, hey, like Bill, this might be the sort of job I was made for. Shoot, I'll do just about anything for free, and since I freely run off at the mouth on ridecamp on any given topic, at any given time, I thought that male underwear just might be a great fit for me. After putting them on one of the first things I discovered was two minutes in the microwave was way too long. YEEEEHAAAWWWWWW, this is one hot pair of underwear, and it's a good thing I didn't get them all the way up, cause if I did, I think the wife would find out the sun just set permanently, never to rise up again. haha (OK, I apologize, but I'd better warn some of ya'll, before we go any further, this might not be your type of endurance article and you should hit that delete button right now, before it's too late; don't want anyone getting outraged, we already have enough hate in this world, over a few lines I write not fit for print in the LL Bean catalogue). Anyway, since I was home alone (that's a dangerous thought), I had put on my new briefs, fresh out of the microwave, in the kitchen, which is where a microwave should be located. The heat from the briefs, touching my skin, caused my legs to start moving rapidly. The problem was the underwear was down around my ankles and, when I started to run, the only place I went to was down on the hard floor. As I tried to stop myself from hitting the floor, I knocked over my coffee cup that was sitting on the counter, it went flying across the room and hit the glass kitchen table, shattering my most expensive piece of furniture in thousands of death inviting splinters, and, as I tried to brace myself for the impending landing upon such glass, I noticed my face was headed right for the dog's dish. As I got closer to the dish, I noticed Taffy (my dog) had not completely finished her meal last night. Now, even I would object to Paddi taking a photo of how I ended up, there on the floor, with the briefs still down around my ankles, part of my body bloody from the shattered glass table and my face in the dog's dish. I think the photo of that scene would be more appropriate on some X-Rated Internet site describing some new fetish, created by this crazy whacko living in Central Florida. The excitement of receiving my new "free" drawers had just left the building. And, the entire scene gives new meaning to the term "dog lover." One of the reasons I know that I suck as a writer is that I am just terrible at describing things, in detail, like a good writer should be able to do. We won't even get into the grammar thing, which I think I can easily destroy, in one paragraph, especially when I start using terms like "down under" and "crimpin my style." I don't think anyone ever knows what I'm really talking about; most of the time I don't either. And, if you ever think you do, please email me and explain it to me, cause I really haven't a clue (I, always, await an explanation from Truman, telling everyone, including myself, what I really meant). In spite of that, here goes, hang on cause ya'll know I can write a hundred pages about a trip to the bathroom (and, somehow, a story of that experience might fit in with my "brief" tale). My new briefs have this pouch thing, a place that keeps my boys (OMG, here he goes!) all safe, snug, secluded, and warm, even though living in Florida, keeping them warm is usually not a problem. Maybe, if they had side air bags, for those sudden, unexpected impacts, like when your horse collides with a tree. Or, even if they had some air conditioning (it really does get darn hot down here), that might be an improvement. But, since such things are not likely affordable, and there's hardly a market for anything that involves men and horses, together, anyway, I'll just throw away those silly ideas (man, the AC does sound cool, though; I'm not so sure about those airbags). The pouch, which seems to be the main, unique attraction to this underwear, has given me the idea of naming my boys Australian names, home of the kangaroo. I've named the one on the left (my left, not yours) Croc, short for Crocodile Dundee, aka Paul Hogan, the one on the right Mel, for Mel Gibson (wasn't he in "Sudden Impact", or do I have the wrong guy?), and the one in the middle, KB, for Koala Bear, cause my wife just loves bears, especially the Koala. Don't you just want to give these bears a hug every time you see them? (OK, I'll stop, for now, with the inferences, cause I know some of the ladies, and even the men, are grunting and moaning in pain already, and I've just begun describing these things, which is really what this post is all about).
To be Continued
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