I'm a cypher, wrapped in an enigma, smothered in secret sauce. Also, my name is Kev and I own this here website.
My apologies for the absence here lately. You see, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail with my buddy, Governor Mark Sanford of good ol’ South Carolina. Yeah, me and Mark go back a long ways. When you have stressful jobs like we do, sometimes you just have to get away. And neither he or I can think of a better way to “get away” than hiking and camping and all that entails.
You know, apropos of nothing, but Mark tells the scariest camping stories. The other day, he told this one story about this young, handsome guy who thought he was hiking the Appalachian Trail with the governor of some southern state when he was REALLY hiking with a deranged serial killer. I don’t know how the story ends — there was an emergency at work so I had run back home — but I’m sure it was spine tingling.
What’s that? Mark wasn’t hiking the Appalachian Trail the past few days? He was in Argentina??
Huh.
Anyway, the other reason I haven’t blogged lately is I’ve had a lot of things on my mind.
Wonderful, exciting, beautiful things.
Is that reason too teasingly vague? My bad.
Do not despair, my dear reader. (Yes, I said “reader.” I’m assuming, after all this time, there is only one of you left.) I’m here now. And I shall entertain you with a blog post that has absolutely nothing to do with anything. Ready? Okay, here we go.
“Boxer Briefs” is more than simply an answer to a question no one in the universe has ever wondered about yours truly. Lately, it is is also a topic that is bringing out the former, superstitious baseball player in me. (All baseball players are superstitious, you see.)
What do I mean?
Two weeks ago, I wore one particular pair of boxer briefs. They are blue, in case you were wondering. That evening, I became ill and had to call in sick to work the following morning.
This past Thursday evening, after having showered after the gym, I put on the same blue boxer briefs. I went to bed, only to wake up a few hours later deathly ill. It was awful. Once again, I had to call in sick to work.
Since I was sick and not going anywhere that day (and also because I had showered the night before), I sported those boxer briefs all day Friday. It wasn’t until Saturday morning, when I showered, did they leave my presence. Evidently, the fact I wore them at all Saturday meant that day would be doomed for me as well. That afternoon, I went to get my haircut. I’ve been getting haircuts all my life without incident. But not that day.
The lady, spawn of Lucifer, whomever or whatever it was cutting my hair mistook my saying “I want to keep my sideburns, but trim them” to mean “cut off my sideburns completely and, if possible, salt the earth so the hair can never grow back.”
That’s right. I am writing this blog post sans sideburns. It is not a good look for me. I look like someone who has watched Forrest Gump way, way, way too many times.
Clearly, these blue boxer briefs are cursed.
I’d burn them, but somehow my house would end up on fire I’m sure.
I’d bury them, but then the curse would get into the soil of the earth and spread like wildfire.
I’d sell them, but I don’t want anyone crazy or weird enough to buy used underwear (!) to know my name or mailing address.
So, in my dresser they will remain.
They will stay there until I gather the courage to tempt fate once again. Or until I run out of boxer briefs. Whichever comes first.
To the left is poor-quality photo of a scratch I noticed on my thumb when I sat down at my desk at work this morning. No, it didn’t hurt. I’m a tough, manly man. But thanks for asking.
