So it’s laundry day for me today.  Which means 2 things:

1.  I’m probably not going to do laundry for another three days because I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns

2.  I’m wearing my Last Stand Boxers

Every guy knows that pair of boxers.  They suck.  For whatever reason – they are too small, fit weird, the elastic at the top has ripped, etc.

You hold off on wearing them to the last possible second.

They get stuffed to the back corner of the top drawer of your dresser (I don’t trust anyone who keeps socks and underwear in any other drawer besides the top one) and they sit there by themselves (I’ve decided if you personify a “pair” of boxers they will be referred to in the plural form) like the fat kid at recess.

When I know I’m down to my Last Stand Boxers I go to bed at night dreading the morning.  I know I have a full day of underwear discomfort ahead of me.

But you know what?  It’s a love/hate relationship with the LSB’s.  As terrible as they might be, they are always there for you.  When the alternatives are going commando or flipping an old pair inside out, your LSBs call out to you from the back corner of the drawer:  “I’m here, and I’m clean.  It might not be the best choice of your life, but I’m better than that trashy pair in your hamper.”

Wearing your Last Stand Boxers is a lot like hitting up your ex-girlfriend for a booty call.  You’re not too thrilled about doing it, but its better than stooping to some floozy at the bar that you know for certain is dirty.



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