Fighting for Freedom in the Ladies Underwear Dept.

 

Women in several countries have begun sending their underwear to Burma, where superstitious members of that country’s ruling junta believe contact with female lingerie saps their strength. 

                                               Associated Press

We were pinned down along a ridge of Pulled Pork Hill, trying to take out an enemy encampment a few hundred feet above us.  I radioed to base camp while my buddy “Spike”–who never goes anywhere without his quotation marks–covered me from a bombed-out Jeep up ahead.

“You’ve got to get us some air support,” I yelled into my walkie-talkie.


Air Supply

 

“Air Supply?  We don’t have any Australian 70’s soft-rock acts lined up for the next USO tour,” came the scratchy reply.

“No, you idiot–air support!  Can’t you send a plane to strafe somebody for us?”

“I love the word ‘Strafe’,” base camp replied.  “It’d be a cool name for a boy, don’t you think?”

“Arrgh!” Spike screamed.  He learned how to talk by reading GI comic books in his youth.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been hit.”

I looked over and sure enough, the enemies of freedom had brought down Spike with the most lethal battlefield weapon ever devised–plus size panty-hose, in taupe.


The antidote

 

“Hold on,” I called out to him.  I pulled a pair of Cat in the Hat boxers from my backpack, the kind of loud male underwear wives give their husbands as cute gifts.  I rolled them into a ball, secured it with some “Happy Father’s Day!” decorative ribbon, and with an “Arrgh!” of my own, gave it my best stiff-armed grenade toss at Spike.

It landed just a few inches from him, and he dragged himself over to the brightly-colored undershorts.

“What do I do with these?”

“Rub it anywhere the panty-hose touched you–like calamine lotion on poison ivy.”

Spike did as he was told, and after a few moments of groggy-headed recovery, was his old self again.


The Nuclear Option

 

I heard the comforting sounds of Spike’s gun, flaying the enemy like a prime rib at an Elks Lodge stag night.  “Budda-budda-bow—ack-ack-ack—rat-a-tat-tat!”  A fighting man with a gun equipped with comic book sound effects is hard to keep down.


Me and Spike.

 

I took out my map to see how much further we had to climb, when a sense of nausea flushed through my body like tuna noodle casserole from a parochial school cafeteria.  “Must focus–guys depending on me” I muttered weakly.  I didn’t notice the cause of my condition; a voluptuous black lace teddy–a Korean knock-off of a Victoria’s Secret number–had landed at my feet.

“Casey!” Spike yelled.  “Look out!”

Spike ran back to my position and screamed “Aiyeee!” as he threw himself open-armed onto the deadly lingerie.

He covered the slinky, silky unmentionable with his body, and I heard a “Mmmffft” sound as the metallic snaps at the crotch exploded harmlessly beneath him.


Tuna noodle casserole:  It must be Friday!

 

I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as I knelt over his body, limp as a marked-down bustier.


End-of-season mark-down.

“Spike–buddy–talk to me!” I blubbered through my tears.

He looked up at me with glassy eyes and spoke feebly.  “This thing (cough) could put the magic (cough) back in any marriage.”

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