Sunday, September 17, 2006
Well I have been meaning to share this story for a little bit now, but a little thing called work has kept getting in the way. For the Labor Day weekend, Mrs. Shife and I went to her parent's house over the long weekend. It is roughly a little more than six hours. We hit the road after work and were on our way. Mrs. Shife drove, and I enjoyed some fabulous cinematic adventures on my portable DVD player. Well as the miles started to rack up something strange started to manifest itself in my pants. I am not sure if it was because I was sitting in the same position for hours or if there was sudden change in cabin pressure or if I had a dormant case of crotch rot that only surfaced in eastern Oregon or if I just suffered from itchy butt syndrome. Whatever the heck was going on in the Fruit of the Loom kingdom is still a mystery but somebody was going to get hurt if there was not a resolution to this drama. So I was faced with a bit of dilemma. Do I ask my lovely wife to pull over so I can further investigate to see if I am smuggling carpenter ants in my pants or do I just take matters into my own hands? The next words out of Mrs. Shife's mouth were "What the fuck are you doing?" so that might give you an idea of what I decided to do. I pulled down my shorts, grabbed my underwear, and started pulling. It is amazing how easily those cotton nut huggers fall to pieces when you pull hard enough. I yanked, tugged, heaved, ripped, jerked, wrenched, cried, etc. and after about 10 minutes the only thing left was an elastic waistband. I could have easily said, "Mrs. Shife can you please pull over. I am experiencing some mild discomfort south of the border." But since I am stubborn son of a bitch I decided I would rather pluck those panties off right then and there in the thriving metropolis that is Milton-Freewater while we were cruising at a speed of 70 miles per hour. So I am down one pair of skivvies, but the joy I felt after being released from my undergarments was almost indescribable. So there you go; the highlight of my Labor Day weekend, but please do not shed any tears for the shredded Hanes because those undies died an honorable death. I do believe that my violent behavior towards my intimate apparel makes me ineligible to be an underwear model, but damn it, the truth had to be told to prevent this from happening to another innocent victim. Yes, it is true, underwear are not always fun to wear.