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
- A pair of Christmas-themed flannel boxers adorned with carntoony Santa Clauses that are a titch too big and approximate R30 commercial-grade blown fiberglass insulation in their heat retention.
- A silk-esque pair that has the unique distinction of possessing a sentience devoted entirely to making attempts to avoid actually covering their assigned duties. Instead, they show a pronounced proclivity towards spending nice weekends in the country, sightseeing, playing bridge, etc., all the while ostensibly still in direct contact with my body. That is to say, they fail in their prime function, namely: covering their “areas of responsibility”, even after repeated reminders as to their duties, written reprimands, threats, cajoling, and even fits of tears.
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?