Magical Panties

I shared this on Facebook and people seemed to enjoy it, so I’m sharing it here too!

I was spending the day at Disney with my boo when I noticed a small string, about a half-inch long, sticking out above the waist of my pants. I decided to pull on the string to get rid of it.

I was a string pulling machine!

and I pulled…and I pulled and proceeded to pull about 4 yards of string out of my pants.

Could have knitted the world a sweater!

I felt a breeze of unwanted freedom below and snapped the string with a key to stop the madness. I had a ball of fuzzy string pilled forever high in my hand and scurried to find somewhere to throw it away.

Watch out I’m trying to get rid of this shit!

I became afraid to use the public restroom because I feared my underwear were either gone entirely, or just laying down there like a fig leaf. I didn’t want to shift any tables in the jean-time-continuum ’cause I just can’t walk around naked in jean shorts. 100% cotton, maybe- but I’m definitely not doing any high kicks in either of those scenarios.

Eventually I did have to crack the pee levee because I drink a shit-ton of water. I stowed myself away into a back corner restroom stall where the light was flickering. Apparently that string was a major component of my underwear’s elastic band because without it, my underwear just kept getting bigger and bigger like they were magical. **ExpectoGrow’Em!** I tucked and folded them bad boys up like I was crafting origami cranes down there and went back out to hit the rides.

Pantygami

By the end of the night I could have sailed a ship with these bloomers, or at least have worn them as a shall or a hipster infinity scarf. At one point I seriously had that shiz tucked up under the bottom of my bra.

If I can figure out how to harness the power of the string I will market rip-cord panties to the world for the holiday season. “Pull this string! BOOM! Comfort.” Well, until they fall out of your pant leg.

The Rhinestone Cowboy

In my offline life, among other things, I am a singer. The first band I was hired to front was a country band.

Proof.

I did not know any country music at the time – but I learned quickly and grew to enjoy the genres. The manager of the band and I hit it off and became close friends. With that friendship, I learned all things country. There were rodeos, NASCAR races, George Straight concerts, moonshine, cowboy hats, front porch-pickin, boots… trailers, sexy lady mud flaps – it was country-tastic. On one of our many country-themed adventures, I was asked to accompany Tim (the manager) and his friends to “The Country Corral.” I inquired as to what the heck that even meant.

“What the hell kind of place is that?”

“Ah, it’s great! There’s a dance floor and it’t packed! We like to sit on the side and watch all the lady butts.”

“So, let me get this, you want me… to go to ‘The Corral’… and stand along the side and watch lady butts with you? MMMMmmm… nyew.”

“No, we just do that sometimes, you gotta go!”

So, after a bit of coaxing and bargaining, I agreed to go:

“Well if we get out there and I crack a window and hear banjos, just remember that you did that to your buttholes – not me.”

YEEHAW! (Click to buy these vintage notecards!)

The journey to The Country Corral was composed of 6 people: Myself, Tim, his bff Kevin, and Kevin brought his work friend, Slick. (Slick brought 2 work friends, that we lost at the door and I haven’t seen them since.) I don’t think “Slick” was his real name, but he answered to it and it was all I ever knew. Slick was an odd nickname to me, because “Slick” was a city boy – but by gawd, he was eating this country shit up with a spoon!

We arrived at the crowded door, and eventually made our way towards the bar. On our way, we saw it. The mechanical bull line. This was no country fair mechanical bull – this was a training bull, with a line of actual rodeo cowboys in wait.

“Look at that!” Shouted Slick

“Yeah buddy, I don’t think that’s for you tonight.” Said Tim

We found a table near the band and took a seat. Slick watched that bull all night from our camp. Slick also drank Goldschlager until he was so marble-mouthed, that I heard him introduce himself as “Shit” to some chick.

“They call me Schlitt”

It was about 12:15AM when Slick announced. “Sheyy evurybuday, *hiccups* I’m gonna dew et! I’ma ridin’ that bull!”

Yeah buddy.

Being a little tipsy ourselves, it sounded like a great idea at the time and we enthusiastically accompanied Slick over to the ride line. After a 30 minute wait amid buckles and boots – tennis shoe wearing slick finally got his turn. Slick was wobbly as hell on approach, jittering all over the bounce house-like fall mat floor. Slick eventually mounted the robo beast and the rodeo began. The bull went down, Slick snapped up. The bull went up, Slick slapped down on that shit like a sack of potatoes. Now, let me explain that Slick was wearing tight jeans. I think he thought they looked like cowboy jeans. But they did not have the same quality stitching, because when Slick’s ass smacked down on that bull – he split his jeans clean open. The entire inseam right down to the knee. It was like make shift denim short chaps with matching denim leg warmers. Kevin, Tim and I almost pissed ourselves laughing. Odder even, Slick didn’t know he was riding that bull in his panties until the end of the ride, where he was ultimately tossed head over foot 5 to 10 feet, exactly 4 seconds after the ride began.

Woaaaah, Nelly! (Click to buy this vintage notecard.)

After about 2 minutes of adrenaline detox, Slick noticed his jeans. Slick was pissed. Drunk Kevin and Tim then said, “Hey man! I think we can fix ’em up!” We retreated to the car where Tim whipped out a giant roll of duct tape from the trunk. (I’ve since learned that most boys are traveling with duct tape in their trunk. Duct tape to boys must be like extra shoes to girls.) Tim and Kevin then began to piece the jeans back together with the tape. By the end of it all, we retuned to The Country Corral dance floor with Slick and his new shiny silver jeans.

It’s worth noting that at about 3:45AM we were cutting said jeans off of Slick outside a Waffle House. Lots of beer and booze make permanent duct tape jeans a poor choice in apparel.

“We can stay up late, telling manly stories, then in the morning… I’m makin’ waffles!”