I Do Not Trust My Underwear

Last night I decided to go for a run. The weather was cool, and I had the Hanna soundtrack on my ipod for mood music; I tend to run faster and for longer when I think Cate Blanchett is behind me with a gun. I had also been staring at the computer screen for several hours by then with my eyes in a flurry of Photoshop layers and my brain turned to mush by html codes. Stepping out into the night air was like entering Narnia. The natural world without a/c and streaming videos is so jarring.

I started off at a brisk jog, allowing my lungs to adapt to physical activity and unfiltered air. Before long I broke into a sprint because I remembered that Cate still wanted to kill me. I dodged a couple of imaginary bullets and pulled an Uncle Vernon move, veering suddenly off the path and going the other way. Shake 'em off! I was having a pretty good time until I got a creeping feeling.

On my butt. My underwear had started slowly sliding down my ass, and my thick track pants certainly were not helping the matter. I tried my best to avoid getting shot by Cate whilst constantly pulling at my waistband every few strides. How in pluperfect Hell is anyone supposed to fight evil CIA officers and run all the way to Germany while wearing the most impractical pair of underpants imaginable? Underpants have one function: keep your junk in check. It's a fairly simple concept. With death drawing nearer, I began rethinking my life and the choices I'd made. What possessed me to purchase underwear with a waistband constructed entirely of lace? It is the weakest of all fabrics! What little stretch it allows will never retract back to its original shape after you put it on. Come to think of it, the jeans I wore earlier had been acting like support beams keeping the collapsible panties in an upright position. In that moment the entire population of fancy underwear became my enemy. It's a sham. It's a scandal. The empire that is Victoria' Secret is selling me nonfunctioning underwear. This supposed delicate lace feature is meant to make my ass look flirty and cute when in fact it is going to get my ass killed by Cate Blanchett. I own a plethora of various underpants guaranteed to attract wandering eyes, but instead, the garment itself is doing the wandering. Up my butt. I do not appreciate marketing of faulty products, and Victoria's Secret has made a fortune selling useless underwear. Perhaps that has been the secret all along. All of us have just been too stupid to realize because we've been distracted, dazzled by the prospect of having our butts encrusted with diamonds. For the record, those hurt when you sit on something without a cushion.

I had barely run half a mile before I decided to call it quits and go home because I was damn near ready to pull a Hansel and rip my trifling underwear off through my pants. That night before I hopped into the shower, I liberated my butt from its incommodious cotton stockade, my hand pulling the garment off in a flourishing gesture of glory. With scorn, I cast my enemy into the trash bin and savored the righteousness of my action.