I workout in my underwear.
That's really all I need, otherwise I'd be flopping around. You could
put an eye out that way, you know. (Yes, it's a dick joke. I'm back,
I work out in my underwear)
Thing is, about once a week
someone knocks on the damn door -- usually a Jehovah's Witness -- so
then I've got to put on my pants and wife beater tee-shirt to answer
the door. You'd think I'd recognize the knock by now, but no. When I
finally do answer, I get a Watchtower shoved into my face, sans Dylan
or Hendrix. Not good.
But last night when I got the
knock I said, "Screw it! I'm answering the door in my underwear.
"Yes!" I said, probably a tad
too loudly as I flung open the door.
The pair said nary a word, they
just stared at me with those deer-in-the-headlights doe eyes.
"Bet you weren't expecting a
guy in his underwear, were you? Yeah. Bet you weren't."
Again they said nothing, just
"You're lucky this isn't last
year. A fat guy in his underwear would have answered the door. Yeah.
You wouldn't have liked that very much, would you? No, I bet not."
They continued to stare.
"Yeah. You'll think twice about
knocking on this door again."
"But since you girls are here,
I'll take a box of the Lemon Chalet Cremes and a box of the Samoas."
What, what!!?? I lost 50 pounds
for crissakes, I deserve some damn cookies.
This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it,
you're on your own.
is a writer and musician living in Austin, Texas.
from the San Francisco Bay Area, he claims strong ties to Seattle, St.
Petersburg, Florida and North Platte, Nebraska.