GQ is usually not sitting out on my coffee table. Neither is coffee. Usually there are a couple newspapers, a couple magazines (the ones you read, not the ones you shoot (I need to be careful to differentiate since I’m sure I’m on the FBI’s watch list after mentioning that the Unabomber had some good stuff to say (but again, I’m all against the blowing up people part))), and where was I? Oh, yes, the coffee table… newspapers, magazines, a set of coasters given to me by Mr. and Mrs. West Coast Ray about 14 years ago, an ant farm, some WWF trading cards, and a rape whistle. But I digress.
But it’s a good thing that I don’t subscribe to GQ because the editors would have likely canceled my subscription after they found out that I decided to do my last round of clothes shopping at Costco right in between filling my cart with case of Stoneyfield yogurt and a brood of marinated chicken breasts.
I was on my way to checkout when I passed the underwear aisle. Boxers or briefs, you ask? Both. Boxer, briefs and boxer briefs. I wear them all. My daily choice depends on what else I’m wearing and how my testicles feel that day. There’s no law requiring monosubligculous, so why not play the field? [Ed. Note: monosubliguculous, a Greek word meaning “one who wears one type of underwear” – get out your Latin translators folks] I am truly a polysubligculist. Recently I’ve noticed that my briefs are not as structurally sound as when they were back when I got them in the 90’s. There’s been some scrotal seepage, especially on the warmer days we’ve experienced lately, and I decided I could remedy that problem with a quick purchase at Costco. I found some swell looking boxer briefs that would surely make me look as hot as the guy on the front of the package (no pun intended), called the Mrs. to make sure I wasn’t buying the wrong kind or paying too much, and tossed a 3-pack in the cart right on top of the 24-pack of frozen pizzas.
I also noticed they sold all sorts of clothes there, and thought I could use a couple polo shirts to fill out my weekday daytime generic businessman wardrobe. You see, our company just broke up so I had to get rid of the branded polo shirts I used to employ in the summer. In the Costco polo section, right next to the ponies, saddles and mallets were several brands of shirts at what seemed to be reasonable prices.
Now I’ve been going with the goatee for about half a year, so I haven’t been able to sport the currently hipster accessory known as the ironic mustache. But I did have an opportunity to create my own new look – the ironic golf shirt. I found a couple shiny polyester shirts from Hathaway, made another quick phone consultation, surprisingly got the thumbs up, and tossed them in my cart right next to 55-gallon drum of guacamole. What is ironic is that I don’t play golf. I don’t even watch it – it’s like The Weather Channel for people who just want to watch nice weather on television (disclaimer – I think I stole that last line from a comic, but can’t remember who to credit). The irony was not lost on my co-workers who realize that if I went missing the last place they would look for me is on a golf course, and questioned why I looked like I had just stepped out of a golf cart rather than just off my bicycle. I took an imaginary golf swing just like Johnny Carson, with my scrotum happily contained, and went back to my office to start on that case of yogurt.