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Red Alert! Red Alert! There’s a Heifer in My Pants!

So. Today is laundry day.

That’s a bit unusual for Chez Charlie — Thursdays aren’t typically made for laundry around here. Usually, that’s a Saturday thing, or maybe Sunday. And one zany, infamous week, even Tuesday. We don’t like to talk about that, though — and we still haven’t gotten the stains off the ceiling. Long story, not important right now.

But strange as it may seem, today — yes, today, a Thursday, of all days — is laundry day. Hide the women and fabric softener, folks. My world is all higgledy-piggledy and shit. Hold me.

See, now normally, I’d just wait until the weekend to start the laundry. Or I’d just wait out my wife, since she has a far, far lower tolerance for dirty clothes than I do. Sometimes, she’ll even do laundry before the pile spills out of the closet and covers the bedroom floor. Before! Hello-ooo. Can you say, ‘anal-retentive‘? Sheesh.

Actually, it’s pretty easy to outlast her in the laundry department. I’ve got at least as many pairs of pants as she does, and way more T-shirts and rugbies, which is pretty much all I ever wear. There’s a bit of a ‘sock race’ going on, I’ll admit, but I’m still a couple of pairs ahead. So on those fronts, I’m golden — there’s no need to ever initiate ‘laundry day’ myself.

And then… then there’s the question of the unmentionables. But I’ll mention them, anyway. That’s the sort of sassy hombre I am. Muchachos.

Anyway, the underpants situation. This is how I know today is laundry day; I’m down to the third — and last — emergency pair of silk boxers in the drawer. I’ve worn the first pair, with the ultra-sexified cherry red hearts all over them.

(Hey, hey — pick up those jaws, ladies. No drooling during the entry; save that saliva and applause until you’re done with the post. I got enough stains on my keyboard as it is.)

So, first pair down. That was Tuesday. Yesterday, pair two went down — them’s the ones with the yellow-headed happy faces. Which is some sort of metaphor, I think — having yellow-headed happy faces on your privates all day. Oh… no, wait. Not a metaphor — a euphemism. Right. I got your yellow-headed happy face right here, baby. Oh, mama.

Anyway, that’s pretty much ‘Orange Alert’ time there, when I’m wearing the happy face pants. Usually by that time, it’s the weekend, or I’ve already done some undie laundry, and just not bothered to fold it yet. But not this week. No, no, Nanette. This week, I was sick. And my boxers were out of sync with the weekend — which sounds like another euphemism of some sort, but it’s not, really. It just means that when I emerged, squeaky and dripping from the shower this afternoon — hey, it’s a holiday; I can shower whenever the hell I want, dammit — I found but one pair of underboxers left in the drawer.

The black-and-white cowprint silk boxers.

That’s the last pair — the third emergency pair. Out of three.

Code red! Code red! Houston, we are one — I repeat, one — step away from going nasty-assed commando. Situation critical and soon, very itchy and creeparific. Ick.

And so, laundry day. Unscheduled, but unavoidable. Socks, I could rewear, or go without. Jeans and shirts are recyclable, in a pinch. T-shirts… um, well… I guess I could always turn one inside-out, if it was only for a couple of hours. Or borrow one of my wife’s, as long as there aren’t frilly flowers or anything on it.

But not the undies. The last pair is the last pair, dammit. And I’m not letting the boys fly solo down there — hey, I saw Something About Mary. Going commando is just begging for that ‘franks ‘n’ beans’ shit to happen. And I’m not goin’ out like that.

And I can’t borrow her panties, either — besides the… confusion I think I might feel, I’m just not sure I’d fit. Not down there, or back in the back, or all the way around. I can think of no dimension, in fact, in which there’s any chance I’d fit inside a pair of her thongy contraptions. And even if I did — oh, the chafing! I can feel it already. I’m all itchy up in there, just thinking about it. Somebody hold me. Really, this time.

All right — enough about undies, up to and including the silky-smooth, slithery-sexy, Holstein-patterned garment wrapped around my nethers at the moment. I don’t know what the hell you people come here for, but I’m pretty sure it’s not to read about that. On the other hand… that’s all I’ve got right now, so it’ll have to do. I’m off to fold my undies and drop another shot of NyQuil. Later, peeps.