Is It Nice Out?

Doing laundry isn't so bad when you have access to weapons-of-mass-time-wasting like kindles, iPods, and smart phones.  With my laundry machines around the corner of my building in my complex of apartments, it's really not worth going all the way back up to my place through the snow, so I just hunker down there and get it all done at once.  And it's pretty enjoyable when I can listen to retro rock guys from Germany with big beards, text three or four friends, stalk 6 or seven others on Facebook, and read a book about a messed up Italian family in the Bronx on my Kindle.  All at once!  Plus the sound of the machines running (at least what I could hear over the amped up and distorted guitars) can be really relaxing.  

I was certainly feeling at ease sitting down there doing all those activities, but I was also a little cold, and oddly just in one area.  My penal area.  So acutely cold in fact that I had to look down to see why, and that's when I saw my dingus dangling out of the fly of my "Dark Side of the Moon" pajamas and flopped onto my lap.  I tucked that sucker in as quickly as I could, but would if someone came down there before I could do put it away?  My neighborhood is by a big University in Chicago, and let's say a young coed came down there to see that?  I could never explain that it must have just slipped out when I crossed my legs, which I'm guessing is what went down (or what came out).  No one would believe that defense.  

And what would be the nail in the coffin of my indecent exposure conviction and potential death sentence and/or loss of all wiener privileges was the that fact that I was wearing a Purple Mountain Unicorn shirt.  Let me explain.  We had a Zubaz party one night where there were like 50 people in awful Zubaz pants and jackets like the one seen below.  My good friend, Oates, found that when you search for Zubaz on Amazon.com, for whatever reason the Purple Mountain Unicorn shirt is on like the second page of the search.  Try It!  Oates decided this would be a good accent, or perhaps more his centerpiece.  Southie and I thought it would be hilarious if he walked into the place to find us two wearing the same awful shirt, and here we are with our faces blurred out to protect our identities (read dignities).  

If I ever could explain why I was lurking in the corner with my pilly-packers flapped over my jammies, after anyone got a good look at this shirt, there is no way in hell anyone would believe the donger out was a mere coincidence.  Only a real deranged pervert would wear this in public.  

Behold.  Three guys in bad shirts.