All right. Look. That’s IT, dudes. I’ve HAD it.
Can’t a girl walk to the community laundry room a mere 10 steps from her own front door — a door she still owns, shockingly — on a sweaty summer’s evening to do some damn laundry without running into YOU — you, the men who live in this small hostile complex of townhomes who insist on walking around in — I don’t know what the hell YOU call them, but I call them Shame Undies or Shundies, if you will — those short, dingy, well-ventilated mini skirts that make me avert my eyes and breathe, “uh, sorry” then slam the door really fast while I skitter away bug-eyed from your pasty, poochy self-loathing?
Look. I do not want to be forced to notice any danglies or jibblies or hoo-hahs or what-nots.
I CANNOT TAKE THE EMBARRASSMENT.
ANY. MORE.
FOR YOU!
FOR MEEEE!!!!
Which is, really, what’s most important in this whole virtual nudist colony scenario we’ve got going on here, people.
Please, for the love of God and Joe Boxer and everything that makes life liveable, please, cover UP your ….. your goods or …. your bads or whichever end of the scale they deserve to be on.
PLEASE!!
I am willing to buy or make — MAKE, even — some mumus, maybe from a nice charcoal pinstripe or a deep blue herringbone. You know, manly mumus. Nice professional mumus. Some damn Community Living Mumus. But something, SOMETHING, just perfect for any and all situations which involve me encountering you and your little box of shaky-shake-a Good ‘n’ Plenty there.
There is an innocent 5-year-old girl arriving here in 12 hours, for God’s sake!
Cover up or I will KICK you. Right there.
Right.
THERE.
And I won’t feel all that bad about it, really, and then my niece can kick you, too, if she wants, but she won’t, because she’s a very kind and sensitive and non-kicky child, unlike her aunt, who, let’s face it, will probably just be acting out some latent childhood hostilities, which, as we all know, is the fertile breeding ground for ALL hostilities everywhere, both latent and manifest. But, anywho ….
Look, just pretend I’m your fusty ol’ gammie and COVER. UP!!
Thanks, Tracey.
I usually read your blog before retiring for the night.
No WAY I’m going to bed with this posting fresh on my mind!!
Time to dig out the Philip Yancey book…
Danglies? Jibblies? Ho-hahs? OMG You’re killing me! Get that man a robe!
Look. I do not want to be forced to notice any danglies or jibblies or ho-hahs or what-nots.
Exactly what I say to my dear husband almost daily. 😉
WG — See? See?? It’s a universal problem.
I am not alone.
Missy and WG — Oh, and I had a misspelling in this post on the oh-so-crucial word “hoo-hahs.” It’s HOO-hah, not HO-hah. I just changed it.
ACK!!
Wow! My life is so boring.
And, BTW, RE: the pentecostal/baptist thing…touche. 🙂
Am I allowed to say this to my husband? Was that in the marriage vows somewhere?
But SERIOUSLY? What are they wearing? Wha? Mini-skirts? I purposely divert my eyes when walking through the men’s underwear section because GAAAACCK EEWWWW PLUGH!!!! So, have I been missing something? Men’s mini-skirts?
Say it isn’t so.
Is it a Scottish commune you’re livin’ in or what?
I am now going to say “jibblies” on a daily basis.
Hahahaha! “Jibblies” — I dunno. I just made it up!
You forgot “twat-twats” (rhymes with what what and not rat hat). I learned that off my grandma back in the 80’s when I showed her my photos from Italy, including some showing Michelangelo statues.
Seriously, I sympathize. Yuck.
ever since seeing the Austin Powers movies, I prefer the term “wedding tackle” me’self.