Men, being men, are practical creatures. We don’t care about underwear most of the time, as long as it is comfortable.
The only time we care about our underwear, is when we hope someone will see it. I’m sure you get what I mean. If no one is going to see my underwear, I don’t care if I’m wearing a piece of rag as long as it fits.
Nice underwear are for young unmarried men.
Married uncles with kids, we should wear our torn underwear like a badge of honor.
You think you can just walk into a shop and buy torn underwear?
You think the discoloration happens overnight?
The ripping around the waistband, the frayed ends, the torn lining, these are not manufactured.
These are earned.
In my younger days, I make it a point to wear nice underwear when I meet my girlfriends because I know there is a chance, they will get to see my underwear. The same reason why my girlfriends, chose to wear nice matching lingerie. There is a chance, I get to remove her undergarments while she removes mine.
For that very reason, I cannot possibly wear a torn and tattered underwear right?
How would my date feel if I flash her a torn, discolored underwear?
Of course it needs to look decent, preferably in a colour she likes. I don’t care if it’s pink, as long as she likes it.
The metric which I measure my underwear choice when I’m in my early twenties is as follows;
- Does it make my privates look good?
- Brand – must have a bit of brand, no need to be too ex, but must be mid range for day to day wear
- Cut and comfort – Different cuts for different occasions. When I do sports, when I go out, when I sleep over at my girlfriend’s place, different cuts of underwear serve different purposes
- Colours – I cannot have a repeat of too many similar colours. It irks me.
Now, it has been distilled into only one consideration.
As long as it covers and support what needs to be supported, the rest is secondary. I don’t care if the brand is Hush puppies or Bush Pussies.
We all need proper support for our testicles by the way.
Unless of course, you are a politician with an army of grassroot supporters saying things that you want to hear instead of sharing information you deserve to know.
I don’t care how torn and disintegrated my underwear is as long as it’s comfortable.
Man have limited attention and energy to focus on things. We cannot afford to focus on anything that are not significant. Our own underwear, is not worthy of our attention, especially so when you are attached, or married.
We have limited ‘fucks’ to give to everything in our day, and giving a ‘fuck’ to what we use to cover our jewels with, is at the bottom of the priority list.
Torn underwear for men means we have our shit figured out.
Torn underwear means we have our priorities right. We hustle for the family, for the future, for a better life. Nice underwear doesn’t mean shit if you cannot put food on the table or are struggling to pay the bills.
Torn underwear is born from repeated cycles of routine abuse, both from being worn and being washed.
Your underwear spends the day pressed against your testicles and penis. When you don’t wee right, your underwear is the one that buffers your pee stain against your trousers and pants.
When you get a sudden hardon, your underwear protects you from embarrassing incidents.
Your underwear protects you from zipper accidents too. Having spent the day rubbing against your stinky tool, it is then unceremoniously thrown into the laundry basket before going into the wash.
This cycles repeats over and over again until the medal of honor is earn when the hem starts to fray and holes start to appear.
To the uninitiated, it might just be a torn underwear, but to the owner, it is a reminder of the sacrifice, the dedication and commitment he has given to his family and loved ones.
The more torn underwear a man owns, the more responsible and capable he is.
You want to know if the MP you voted for is doing his job ? Ask him to show you his underwear. Is he sitting in office and dreaming about the next election, or is he running around trying to engage the residents ?
You run around, you hustle, your thighs rub against each other, your underwear gets worn down fast. The underwear of a hard worker versus a useless bum who sits in the office and surfs the net will look vastly different.
Put them side by side, I’m sure anyone can tell which belongs to who.
(I’m pretty sure you will get arrested if you asked to see your MP’s underwear. Don’t try)
Now, the only person that gives a fuck about my underwear these days is my wife.
You think torn underwear are mere badges of honor?
Of course not. I have also managed to use them as a powerful negotiation tool.
My wife calls out the name of the lord when she sees me strutting around the house with my torn underwear. The one with a waistband that could barely keep it up on my waist. One that threatened to fall with each step I take.
The holes and frayed ends are so bad that if I were to offer it to a thrift store to use as rags, they will flat out reject me and throw it in my face.
She will beg me to throw it away.
And I will refuse.
I never felt more powerful. Power is felt when you see the helpless look on the person’s face.
And that look is when I want to wear that torn underwear out.
My wife will beg me to change.
Power is when I strut around with that piece of rag around my waist when my in laws will drop in anytime.
My wife will transform into a damsel in distress when she sees me wearing those torn underwear. She suggested couple counselling, or to visit a shrink together, but at the thought that I will be showing the therapist my underwear, she back down immediately.
Sometimes I give in, sometimes I do change from the rag into something else.
Changing into one less torn but discolored will see her getting weak on her knees, because the colour makes it look like I shit myself. Picture a white underwear that is already turning a shade grey, and the entire bottom region right up to my groin is discloured in a disgusting shade of diarrhea brown.
Yes diarrhea brown is a colour I invented.
She has promised me everything from unlimited sex to a blowjob in a public toilet as long as I agree to throw away my torn and discoloured underwears.
I said no.
When I need to win a negotiation, I will put on my torn underwear and it usually does the trick.
At the time of this article, I own 14 underwears. 6 of which are in various state of decay but are still actively worn. Sometimes I wear them out of comfort, sometimes I wear them to irritate my wife. 2 are nice ones reserved for special couple bonding nights (wink wink). The others, I rotate them until they join the veterans in the special pile.
Sitting in my wardrobe are 2 brand new boxes of underwear that my wife bought for me. Both remained unopened and unclaimed. She tried everything, she even offered me hers.
The veteran underwears have their own pile not only in my drawer, but also on the laundry rack.
My wife insist I hang them by the rags section so they blend in.
It’s ok, I don’t mind.
I’m rather proud actually to display my medal of honor to my neighbours.
One look at my torn underwear, they know I’m a good husband, a filial son, and a wonderful father.
And when I see other torn underwear on laundry racks, I always give a silent salute to the men that own them.
This is something that Women will never understand.
To my fellow brothers with torn underwears, wear them proudly.
Hang them up high.
In this day and age where people flaunt and flex everything on social media for validation, torn underwear is perhaps the one thing that you do not need to flex, yet that badge of honor is recognized by many.
Those that know will know. Those that don’t, will never understand.
So ladies, go look at your husband’s underwear drawer.
Judge him not by how much he brings home a month, instead, judge him by how many torn underwear he owns.
There are many traits that define a good man, and torn underwears is definitely one of them.
Diarrhea brown on white is out of stock.
Mala burn on light blue is running low
Holely molely on grey will be restocked next month.