An Open Letter to the Guy Who Left His Tighty Whities on the Street

Dear Sir,

I don’t know what compelled you to discard your not very gently used tighty whities by the roadside.  I can only imagine that you had a personal emergency situation and decided that throwing them out your car window was the equivalent of magically transporting them into another dimension, preferably one populated entirely by appreciative dung beetles.  I can assure you that this is not what happened.

Instead, your underpants sat in the middle of the road, being run over by cars and soaked by last night’s rain, until my dogs found them this morning, that is.

A bit of background here: I am responsible for the exercise needs of two large dogs, Rowlfie and Stadler.  At a combined weight of 154lbs, they possess the towing strength of approximately one Clydesdale – two when they see a cat.  I give them their work out by attaching their harnesses to a two-headed leash with a handle like a waterski tow cable, and let them haul me around the neighborhood on my bike (Gertrude), while I burn out the brakes and yell, “NO SQUIRRELS.”  It is, admittedly, a pretty stupid way to save time since it’s ultimately going to wind up at a minimum breaking both my legs and rupturing my spleen.  However, the canine contingent seems to really enjoy it.

The morning was pleasantly cool – a mere 83 degrees and I was excited to go for a long “ride.”  By the time we reached the street in question, the dogs had settled in to a nice companionable trot and everyone was enjoying the beautiful morning by the sea.  I noticed your downstairs debris from about half a block away, but mistook them for an HEB bag.  Not thinking the dogs would have any interest in said stupid bag, I continued on course, happily listening to my music and thinking that the world wasn’t such a terrible place after all.

Unfortunately, thanks at least in part to people like you; the world is not a bucolic paradise.  It is, in a word, often quite crappy.

I turned my gaze from observing the way sunlight runs liquid down the palm fronds back to my happy dogs, thinking that one of them might shoot me a thankful grin.  Instead I witnessed my ever-curious, pokey-nosed Black Lab, Stadler, gleefully scoop your streaked tighty whities into her eager jaws and then begin tossing them up into the air, catching them as she ran. She didn’t miss a stride.

“OH NO!  GOD NO!” I screamed, immediately and accurately assessing a situation so terrible that the story must pass into urban legend, a cautionary tale to terrify young dog owners.

“RELEASE!” I yelled, trying to get her to drop your underpants as a Gertrude ground to a wheel peeling halt.

Stadler, carrying a prize so spectacular that any compulsion for obedience was vehemently overridden, did not release.  I dismounted and tugged her closer to me so that I could remove her new most favorite toy from her jaws. I grabbed your underpants by what I hope was the waistband and began to pull.  The circuits of Stadler’s admittedly small brain lit up like an ambitious Christmas tree.  “GAME!  GAME!  GAME WITH AB! TOY!!!” She began to pull in earnest, planting her back feet and mock growling.

I hollered at my poor dog, all the while trying to ignore the fact that I was trying to wrestle a pair of underpants of the genus Horrible Horribulus away from her.  Stadler began to give way a tiny bit as I pulled her front feet off the ground, but still hung on like a barnacle.  I started to try to shake all 74 pounds of her off, still yelling stuff like, “STADLER!  THIS IS DISGUSTING! OH GOD!!  EWWWW!!!”

And that’s when 82lb Rowlfie joined in, grabbing a corner left unclaimed by the original combatants.  Rowlf snapped his gator mouth shut, braced his stocky bulldog body and started pulling for all he was worth.  I am nothing if not competitive, and there was absolutely no way these dogs were going to take your nasty man panties home with us.  I uttered a cuss so long and profoundly disturbing that it can’t be reproduced in print (I know this because I tried and the paper kept catching on fire), placed my other hand on your undies and faced the rapturous canines.

After a couple of minutes, Rowlfie’s weight and strength dislodged Stadler.  She tried to get back in, but she couldn’t maneuver around Rowlf to get another bite of your drawers.  I reeled Rowlfie in like I had a swordfish on the line, gradually winding your tighty whites around my right fist.  Eventually, I won the terrible taffy pull, dislodging old Rowlf with one great final tug.  Exultantly, I held your corrupt contribution aloft as I remounted Gertrude, and made to start our ride anew.

I probably should have noticed that both dogs were sitting, ears perked forward, staring almost lasciviously at their new FAVORITE TOY OF ALL TIME as I held it out of reach.   I didn’t, though, because trying to mount a bicycle holding a leash in one hand and a pair of disgusting underwear in the other is more difficult than you might imagine.  As I accomplished the task and made ready to resume our journey, I angrily hurled your beleaguered briefs at the nearest curb.  They flew like a fastball and landed in the gutter with a disgusting “splat.”

And that’s when both dogs ran directly over me and my bike to retrieve them.

As I lay in the street, my helmet knocked cockeyed and my body bereft of all air, I watched the now uncontrolled canines joyously tearing your underpants to shreds.  They fought until they finally stretched the elastic waistband to its breaking point, and then scooped up the remains and brought them over to me (still tangled, defeated in Gertrude’s frame)  – to see if maybe I could fix the toy so that they could play some more.

Eventually, I managed to tear the scraps out of their dog faces – although I’m pretty sure at least some fabric made it into their digestive systems.  This time, I bagged your trash pants in a poop sack and went home.

The final resting place of your tighty whities was in my big green city dumpster.  They were given an eloquent final eulogy the premise of which was, “Sons of blanks who throw their blanking downstairs detritus out the car window so the blanking dogs can get it.”  If you would like to hear it, please contact me at editor@islandmoon.com, subject line: “Penitent Douche Canoe.”  I will be happy to recite it for you verbatim.  You owe me a heartfelt apology and three pink “Hello Kitty” Band-Aids.

Sincerely,

Abigail Bair

Doggers

Some people are altogether too pleased with themselves.

 

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About rubberchickensociety

The Rubber Chicken Society is a loosely knit collective of free thinkers who support and enjoy chicken related humor.
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