It must not happen.
I cannot get hit by a car, or get caught in the crossfire of some drive-by shooting, or fall off of a bridge, because I am wearing the world's scariest underwear.
They are like the knickers my grandmother wears.
They surpass my belly button, but are peculiarly baggy in the posterior. If my lifeless body were fished out of a river, the only thing anyone would notice would be the enormous 16th century balloon breeches wrapped around my corpse, which probably would have been responsible for drowning me in the first place.
It's simultaneously funny and disturbing.
I got these (dare I call them panties?) for Christmas last year. When my mom asked me if there was anything I needed in the way of personal necessities, I explained to her that I needed socks and undies: you know-- practical, comfortable, utilitarian, Fruit of the Loom skivs for those under-the-weather days when showering and wearing make-up are done merely out of consideration for the rest of the world. Let me tell you what I was not prepared for:
THESE:
Would you believe they have the audacity to have lace trim?
I was unprepared for the lace trim.
