I am not a brave man. I freely admit that I am a girly sissy pansy boy.
It is snowing in Chicago, and I am deathly afraid the fat white oversized wet things are going to find me, give me influenza, and kill me. While the Chicago Cannonball is frolicking around in a pajama top, making this city very bearable, I can only say that I am glad I did not have to embarrass myself to buy that silver piece of cloth.
Those silk pajamas were bought in Thailand. That was not scary. I went into a normal store and bought them. I do not speak Thai, but it was a regular transaction. I did not have to go into the place that turns this Tygrrrr into a lamb. I did not have to venture into Victoria’s Secret.
Yes, this republican becomes very ultra conservative when the topic is women’s underwear. I do not mind biting them off of a woman with my teeth, but don’t make me buy them. I am just not into the details and nuances required to buy the stuff. Why can’t women be like men and just go into a grocery store and buy Hanes? I mean they fit fine, and Inspector 12 made sure they were quality.
I had to go into Victoria’s Secret in 1990. A girl I liked worked there in the mall. Would it have killed her to have worked in the food court instead? Then we could have gotten free pizza or something. No, I had to pick her up in Victoria’s Secret. I took a female friend with me to the mall for moral support.
When my friend could not understand why I was so intimidated by that place, I told her that men should not go in there. She pointed out that lots of men go in there, but my response, which I maintain to this very day is that “Men who are in Victoria’s Secret are way too happy to be in there.”
Instead of going in to get my date, I sent my friend in. I knew that would be manly. One reason the date liked me when we met was because I came across as a tough guy. My plan failed when my friend came back out and said, “Eric, she is gorgeous, you have to go in there and get her.” When I asked why my friend did not simply bring her out, I was told that I was to go in.
With much trepidation, I entered the store, looking all around to see who was looking at me. A saleswoman was looking at me and ready to approach me. I was scared to death, wondering why any saleswoman would talk to me in that store. Couldn’t she look at me and have her female ESP tell her that I was not a customer? The woman asked me, “May I help you?” I replied, “No!” and then ran out of the store.
I then told my friend we were going home. So yes, I pased up a chance to meet a gorgeous girl because it is better to be seen as a (insert bad word women use for guys who act like whateve that word is) than a women’s underwear pervert.
While I vowed to never go in again, my Hebrew faith led me back into the store. For those wondering what Judaism has to do with lady’s underwear, the answer is simple. 18 is a lucky number in Jewish culture. My dear friend “Sir Sleep A Lot” was visiting from Israel. He needed to buy something sexy for his fiancee. Given that 2008 was 18 years after my last visit, I had to go in.
The worst part was listening to the salespeople ask him exactly what the contours of his fiancee were. Apparently there are different types pf underwear for different women. I refused to listen to the presentation, scared that somebody from the republican party would enter the place and compare me to Larry Craig or something. Then again, if they are republicans, what are they doing in Victoria’s Secret anyway?
Sir Sleep A Alot could not figure out a way to explain to the salespeople that his girlfriend would make Sir Mix A Lot’s girlfriend proud. For those that are not up on rap music from 15 years ago, the song was “Baby Got Back.”
Luckily I had a 21st century reference. I told my friend to tell the saleswoman that his fiancee had a “badonkadonk.” He had trouble saying the word, but the saleswoman understood and smiled. I am glad I did not have to bring up my unhealthy fascination with Monique from Showtime at the Apollo to explain it further.
While some men may find it erotic to have a well endowed saleswoman discussing the romantic possibilities of edible underthings, I just kept staring at my watch and wondering how long it can take to throw something in a box and buy it. As I said, I do not mind the end results at home, but I don’t want to go throug the process of purchasing them. If the lord wanted me to get erotic lingerie in front of the world he would not have created the internet with help from Al Gore. Besides, given what a pantywaist Gore is, I am sure he is an expert about Victoria’s Secret. Tipper did say he was a great lover. He is stiff after all.
The saleswoman saw my discomfort, and finally asked me why I felt that way. I stated that “I am sure most of the men who come in here are perverts, and I prefer not to be lumped in that category.” She laughed, but I continued.
“Be honest, how many guys try to buy the mannequins?” Sir Sleep A Lot was mortified at the thought, gentleman that he is, but my suspicions were confirmed. Men do offer to buy the Mannequins. Some men only want the appendages! I was in a store where guys try to traffic in fake human body parts! Are you kidding me?
I just am too incredibly, dare I say it, normal. My answer to everything is “Strawberry.” When I worked at a gift store in 1994, I was in charge of coffee mugs. If you wanted to know about mugs, I was your mug man. The store sold cute “Hello Kitty Stuff,” greeting cards, and other seasonal merchandise. Yet they had a small erotica section, and when a girl asked me which flavor of edible underthings was best, I went back to ask the manager. She told me in those situations to just recommend strawberry and move on to the next customer.
I am the son of retired schoolteachers for crying out loud. I am not descendant from people who buy mannequins, blow up dolls, or underwear that talks back in a sexy voice. I have no idea if that exists, but some sick twisted individual will invent if they have not already.
Maybe I should be more sympathetic towards Bill Clinton. I will wave my finger at America and say that I had no knowledge of any aforementioned panties, not one time, never. I have not once ever wondered what underclothing Hillary Clinton or Bea Arthur wear, and you should all be disgusted for bringing it up.
As for the Chicago Cannonball, at least she is using her laptop for something productive while I release my anxieities to the blogosphere. I could make another remark about her “laptop,” but I am not that sophomoric. She does have much nicer underclothing than me, but if asked to testify before Congress, she bought it without my help.
The snow is coming down hard, and I do not see myself leaving the bedroom. I pray that the Chicago Cannonball does not turn into one of those women that sends a guy out into the cold and snow to shop for feminine hygiene products. Being emasculated once every 18 years is enough for this nice Jewish boy from a good family.
Is it 2026 yet?