Tag Archives: Underwear

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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Put A Little Love In Your Life

Yes, dudes, it’s Valentine’s Day. I sure hope you have already purchased/made/found the right gift for your loved one, the gift that says exactly how you feel and will be accurately understood as such.

And, yes, I also know that Valentine’s Day is a creepily commercial holiday designed to force people to spend unFSMly amounts of money on chocolate and flowers and cards and gifts and all that stuff just so they can say they love/like/don’t actively plot to kill someone.

So, yes, I did go out and buy stuff for She Who Must Be Made Aware Of My Undimmed Ardor. Yes, we did purchase cards to send to children, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, parents, step-parents and all like that.

Sure there should  be a boycott of the whole silly thing, but, brother, I ain’t the dude to lead that futile bit of fluff which will, ultimately, only make its leaders look like idiots.

Even with the commercial aspect of all this. . . You know what? I really don’t mind it.

You can and should tell your loved ones every single day that you do love them, that they mean the world to you and you would hardly be able to go on without them. Or words to that effect. That’s something that every right-thinking individual should do on a more-than-daily basis.

But that sometimes doesn’t happen. I think it’s nice that there’s a day set aside for love. A day designed (in theory) explicitly to make it easier to express the love we feel toward another person.

That and I love getting chocolates. So there’s that.

Of course, I think the whole thing has become overblown to an appalling extent, but that’s what happens with most things in America that stand a small chance of actually making some company somewhere some amount of money. More hoopla, more money. It’s the way it goes.

Which doesn’t mean it’s all wrong.

So, whether or not you’ve bought into the prevailing zeitgeist and purchased something big and expensive or simply took the time to walk up behind your loved one and wrap an arm around his/her shoulders and whisper that she/he is loved, enjoy it.

Realize that love, however and wherever you find it, is a rare and precious thing that should always be celebrated. Even if it means you have to dress in silk underwear with red hearts printed on it.

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Blood Tales: Vivá, Mexico! Parte Dos

by Richard

A Mexican hospital is an interesting place. For one thing, they apparently don’t believe in pillows. For another, what good was my high-school Spanish if I can’t say “My poop is made from blood.” in Spanish.

Fortunately, the doctors and nurses were minimally proficient in English and we could do a good job of communicating across the language barrier. Well, at least I think we were doing a good job communicating. Things got a little confusing.

One other interesting thing about the hospital in Cozumel: the ambulance actually backed up into the emergency room to disgorge me into the hospital proper.

I had an interesting couple of hours as I tried to communicate what was happening to me while the nurses took blood, hooked up more IVs and took away my clothing. Thank goodness they let me keep my underwear on. Unfortunately, I’d picked that day to wear my Superman underwear. Don’t you judge me.

While I was not getting comfortable in hospital, the family was checking into a nice hotel on the beach in Cozumel that the cruise line, Royal Caribbean, had found for them. The young dudes got settled while my wife, known by me as She Who Must Come To My Rescue — Eventually, made her way to the hospital.

She arrived just in time to watch as one of my IVs became detached. IV fluid spurted from one end while blood spurted from the end attached to my arm. We tried to pinch off the blood flow while I screamed (only partially like a little girl) out an actually appropriate Spanish phrase: “Ayuda me!” Which means help me!

Eventually, we got the IV hooked back up thanks to the timely intervention of a helpful nurse. A little while after that, a doctor came by and, in halting English, explained that they would need to do an emergency endoscopy, in which the doctors would anesthetize me and stick a camera down my throat to see if they could determine if and from where I was bleeding. Considering that I poking around with a camera could restart or worsen any bleeding that was going on, this was considered a more than moderately risky procedure.

And then we heard nothing for another two hours. During that time, I got moved from a cubicle into a private room and got the opportunity to expel some more semi-digested, very, very stinky blood. While in the room, we got a call from a Life Flight agency. That’s how we learned that there was none of my blood type (A negative) on the island and so they didn’t want to do the endoscopy and, instead, wanted us to be sent home on an air ambulance.

We quickly learned that the air ambulance would cost approximately $30,000 and we’d not be able to take the young dudes with us because of weight issues with the plane. We said we’d think about it.

The doctors then decided to keep me overnight and monitor the situation. My hemoglobin count hadn’t been doing any more diving and had stayed relatively stable throughout my hospital stay, so we felt relatively confident I wasn’t going to kick off during the night.

And so began one of the longest nights of my life.

Twice during the night, IVs came unhooked and began dripping fluid into the bed. Neither time did a nurse come in to do anything about it, so I just bundled up some sheets from one of the beds and tried to get along without the IVs. Probably not a smart move, but, I’ve never claimed to be a smart dude.

Eventually the morning arrived and, with it, news that the doctors had decided, since we were not going to do the Life Flight immediately, they would do the endoscopy. What about the lack of A negative blood? we asked. Blood? We don’t need no steenkeng blood, they didn’t say.

That’s when we decided it was time to make with The Great Escape.

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