Death to Tighty Whitey

My husband Sean and I are on our way to my mother’s house. She has spent the day cooking, and we’re invited over for some baked ziti, homemade sauce, and meatballs. We do not put up a fight. True to our Italian heritage, we become ravenous salivating wolves at the mere mention of ziti and meatballs. That’s right, keep your arms at your sides and back away slowly.

So as we’re riding along in the truck, Sean starts complaining that he must have gained weight because his jeans seem too tight. “Well, it is that time of year,” I tell him.

We start talking about our upcoming trip to Jamaica. He mentions again how tight the jeans are. I start to tell him about the funny thing the dog did.

But it was back to the jeans again: “I grabbed the right ones, right? Yeah, these are the new ones.”

“Yeah, they look like the new ones”

“I don’t know why they’re so tight.”

“Do you have a hard on?”

“No.”

“Well then maybe you did gain weight,” I tell him. “So anyway, when I went to let Scruffy in, he just dove head first into the door. He didn’t even wait for me to open it. He just head-butted it and fell on the sidewalk.”

As I’m talking, there’s a tearing sound. The unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. I look over to see the waistband of a pair of Hanes tighty whitey’s being yanked up out of the jeans. He’s gotten it up over one arm, and he’s working on getting the other arm through.

“What are you doing?” I say this nonchalantly, as if this is a common occurrence with this guy.

He starts silently convulsing at this point. The waistband is pinning both of his arms to his sides and he’s still driving the truck. He’s trapped and doubled over in a fit of laughter.

Derek Zoolander made it look so easy. If we were to be pulled over right now, I think they could definitely pin him with a Driving While Ability Impaired. Perhaps if Sean could display a flawless Blue Steel the officer would let him go with a warning.

Yes, Blue Steel is our only hope, because Sean was wrapped in a tighty whitey straight jacket and cackling like a madman.

But with a few more tugs he finally wrenches himself free. My commando husband victoriously announces that the new jeans feel great.

We drive the rest of the way with a shredded pair of tighty whitey’s flying from the antenna.