Momma Says Spock You OUT.
Not recommended by Doctors or Doctor Mom, I’d wager.
…It’s apparently more addictive than crack.
At the bottom of my underwear & sock drawer lies two pairs of boxers of marginal utility, ones whose use/comfort profiles relegate them to status of Boxers Of Last Resort. That is to say, I press them into service if, and only if, all other options have been exhausted. My fellow boxer wearers are likely aware of this effect and have developed a system of their own to deal with this particularly heinous state of affairs. (I leave out you wearers of briefs because, hey, briefs are briefs are briefs, right? And a memo to boxer-brief wearers: don’t write me letters. Maybe it’s just me, but your Tom-Cruise-Pushing-The-Wonders-of-Scientology-esque paeans to the virtues of the undergarments are just creepy.)
Where was I? Ah, yes, BOLRs. So my two pairs of BOLRs happen to be
As I stated, I generally make it a policy to avoid employing said BOLRs unless absolutely necessary, given their intrinsic natures and so, it was with no little distress that I realized last week that I had neglected to either a) inform my wife of the dwindling supply of clean undergarments I held sway over or b) do my own darn load of nether-region-covering laundry. I mentioned in passing to my wife that I was “Down to me silks and Santas” and, as our eyes met, I could tell we were both thinking the same thing: “That would make an excellent bit of Cockney Rhyming Slang.”
Of course, it doesn’t really rhyme with anything, so perhaps it’s more Dimwell Arrhythmic Rhyming Slang, but still, point remains: it just sounds right.
So, this brings up a series of questions, of course. Whom do I submit this one to? Is there some sort of international committee or standards body that reviews these things? Can I get my slang ISO-certified?
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