I’m multi-tasking today – laundry, planning dinner, blog post, playing Carleton the Doorman for two cats and company business. I consider this a full day bordering on unreasonably expectation-y because my personal preference for any given day includes Solitaire time and a 2-hour nap at 3:00pm which this day doesn’t include.
While I was folding the first load of clothes out of the dryer I came across a pair of panties I’ve never actually worn for more than 14.8 minutes. They are made of 100% nylon – at least that’s what it says on the panties – but I happen to have excellent proof that they also contain some space-age, super slippery properties they don’t want us to know about. That’s right Hanes, I’m on to you!
I bought them because they are really quite lovely for Granny Panties; so lovely, in fact, that I bought 2 packs of them. Yes. I wear Granny Panties. Especially Golden Girls Granny Panties. Because they are fucking comfortable and if they are good enough for Dorothy, they are good enough for me.
Anyway, I washed them and folded them lovingly. The following morning, I picked out the prettiest one and put it on. I even paused to admired it in the mirror before I put on my pants. Everything seemed fine at first. It was completely fine……until I sat down.
Suddenly my pants went one way and my panties went another! My pants were aligned with my right hip while the panties remained in place. What kind of fuckery is this?! The panties are so slippery that when I sat down, the increased friction of cloth against an immovable force (the chair) caused a fracturing of contact between the Demon Panties and the cotton of my pants. I’m lucky the chair had arm-rests, or I would have been propelled to the floor! The ensuing lawsuit would be as weird as the guy who sued Starbuck’s because he got his penis pinched between the toilet seat and the porcelain of the toilet itself*.
I went directly back to the bedroom to change my panties because there was no way in hell I could slip slide through my day. I didn’t even have to pull my pants down manually – I just wiggled a bit and they fell to my ankles.
And now I’m wondering what Hanes was thinking? Surely, they have quality control. Didn’t anyone put a pair on? Or maybe someone did try them, slipped off their chair, hit their head on the corner of a sewing machine and died. Also, what am I supposed to do with these Demon Panties? I could donate them to a Thrift Store, but that’s just passing on the danger, right? What if a young, single mom takes them then falls off the Bus Stop bench and breaks a leg? That’s the last thing she needs!
As a responsible member of society, I’ve taken a stand. I have balled-up all my Demon Panties in a bag, labelled it (in case someone is cleaning out my closets after I’m dead and thinks to donate such new panties) and shoved them to the back of my Personals Drawer where they will never be a danger to anyone else. I simply don’t want to be responsible for future humiliations and broken bones.
Because that’s just the kind of woman I am. You’re welcome.
PS: Maybe I should burn them. You never know who is going through your shit after you’re dead. Maybe they’ll sell them instead of heeding the large warning on the bag. I’ll need a big barrel, some dynamite and a flare gun.