Tag Archives: Foot Radius

The Good Guys Always Wear Black. . . Underwear

The book’s release must be getting near* because here comes Barry yet again. This time, Barry has a thrilling story about why you should always wear black underwear. Although I’m not sure Barry’s really thought it through on this one. Still, let’s hear him out.

All right, dudes, let’s give it up for. . . Barry!

I am a dude of rather. . . substantial means. And by substantial I mean large. And by large I mean, well, large. In any number of ways. *wink* But the way I’m talking about is related to the pounds I’ve packed on since I purchased a really nice Brooks Brothers suit.

I put the suit on and, while the fit was a little off, I looked even more awesome than normal so I decided to go with it. Which, looking back, might have been a mistake.

One thing I know was a mistake was going out to eat dinner with some friends and eating a cheeseburger. I knew I was living dangerously, living life on the edge, as it were, but I didn’t care. See, I have lactose intolerance.

For those of you dudes lucky enough know to know what that is, I’ll make it relatively simple. I can’t eat dairy (drink milk, eat cheese, or ice cream or anything made from milk). That is, I can, but there’s some severe intestinal problems should I do it. And by intestinal problems, I mean, um, well, let’s just say you can smell the problems and you’d understand.

So, there I was: post-cheeseburger, dressed in a nice, but slightly tight suit and I was getting into the car to drive to work. It was at that time that my lactose intolerance acted up and I had to let it, ah. . . express itself? Yes, express itself. That’s what it did. It was rather loud and I found myself grateful that there was no one else in the car or withint a ten-foot radius.

Feeling slightly better, I headed off to work. I had like five meetings that day; in and out, up and down, before the cheeseburger began to demand that it wanted out. And it wanted out NOW.

Once comfortably ensconced on the porcelain throne, I relaxed and sort of glanced down toward my feet. Unfortunately, what I saw was the floor of the bathroom. Nothing exceptional, until I realized I was looking at the floor through my pants.

What I had thought was just a fart was, in fact, me ripping the nethers out of my pants. There was a hole so big that. . .

pants photo

You know what?

I’m not even going to describe it.

Here, take a look. This is the hole in the back of my pants that I walked around wearing all that day. Yes, really. This pair of pants. Isn’t it lovely?

That one, right there. See the white in the middle of the pants? Yeah, that’s the bedsheet you can see through the whole hole.

And I never once noticed until it was far, far too late.

My point here is to serve as a bit of a warning for all you dudes with your little dudes and suchlike, to make sure your suits fit? No. Um, not eat cheeseburgers if you’re lactose intolerant. Okay, good tip, but not the one.

Oh, wait. I’ve got it: always try and match the color of your underwear to the color of your pants. That way, if anything. . . untoward happens, at least you’ve got some sort of camouflage. Or something like that, anyway.

*it is. Our book, Dude’s Guide to Babies, has a new publication date: It’s March 22. Mark it on your calendars now.

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The Cat’s Meow

by Richard

Apparently, our house is getting something of a reputation in the animal world as a bit of an easy touch. First we had a neighbor’s cat basically move into our house, despite the fact that we didn’t want it there. Thankfully the cat moved on to another house down the street after a couple of years. Yes, seriously.

However, now we’ve got another problem. There’s a Maine Coone mix living in the woods around our backyard and it has decided it’s going to start eating in our garage with the cats who actually live here and it’s going to hang around the periphery of the yard just to drive the dog nuts. Yep. Apparently we’re attracting feral cats now.

The cat’s been around for about a year now. So, in the way of all animals that our little dudes see more than once, it’s acquired a name. Through a ridiculously long explanation, we ended up calling the cat Mario, which — oddly — has absolutely nothing to do with small, fat plumbers with bad Italian accents.

Frankly, I figured Mario would have been long gone by now, but I think it’s becoming acclimated to life on the outside of our house. When he (or she, really, since we have no idea of the cat’s gender) first showed up, if we walked within a 50-foot radius of the cat, it would bolt for the woods in a blur of gray and brown. Over the weeks and months, it’s become a little more used to our presence.

Now, if Mario is out in the garage eating from a food bowl that isn’t meant for him and we walk out of the door into the garage, the cat will leisurely jog outside and then sit down to wait on the driveway until we leave. Heck, he’s even sat still as we’ve walked to within five feet or so of him. Which is, actually, a pretty good thing.

Because, you see, now that he’s been around for a while and we’ve built up a little trust, I’m getting ready to crush it. I plan on trapping Mario, taking the resultant howling, spitting and hissing hurricane of fur to the vet and getting him shots. Oh yeah, I’m also going to have his testicles taken out. Or her uterus. Whichever is more appropriate. While that may sound cruel, I think it’s rather a good idea. We’ll be helping to cut (no pun intended) down on the number of feral cats running around out there, dying by degrees, spreading disease and making more cats to run around without any care.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

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