[humor]

Thong Members:
Rage Against the V-String!

By: Carolyna Shelton

It is typical of the media to malign the victim, and I plan to take a stand against this shoddy example of sensationalistic journalism—just as soon as I put on my eye protection and deal with this thong.

Poor pop-eyed Macrida Patterson, who is, in a word, substantial, is suing ling-er-ee industry dominatrix Victoria’s Secret for damage to her cornea caused by the apparent misfire of the metallic charm on the back of her Sexy Little Things V-string ... and people say the legal system in our country is broken?! I’ll tell you what’s broken: poor Macrida Patterson, who merely seeks an unspecified amount in excess of $25,000 so she can become a hole—oops, sorry—whole again, according to her butt-floss lawyer, Jason Buccat (who probably was spawned alongside the most intimate part of a V-string).

This seems perfectly reasonable to me. Long-time readers (each of them) can probably recall that early in this column, I pronounced myself president of an activist organization called “THONGs” (Those Hating Oppressive Nonessential Garments), and this is just the sort of shoddy attire that our organization denounces (www.myspace.com/carolynashelton). Underwear creeps up into our collective cracks insidiously. We will not realize the dangers until, like poor Macrida, we are wriggling into the Drawers of Bondage and find ourselves under heavy artillery fire.

Many people are making jokes at Macrida’s expense. The ill-informed among us wonder how her eye came to be proximate to the charm’s trajectory. But I work for the state government, and I have seen this maneuver in action many times over. Others have surmised that perhaps she exceeded the spandex capacity of the tourniquet-sized garment. Perhaps, they may wonder, the charm may not have been launched with such vicious torque, had the V-string not been pulled as taut as a nuclear slingshot.

Well, to the doubters and panty-pundits, I say: Do you like granny panties? Do you want FLDS-type sex retardant underwear to be mandated by Congress? No? Then pull the excess fabric out of your crack, and for butt’s sake, listen to reason. (Come to think of it, legislation of that nature, led by perhaps I-da-HO’s incumbent Senator Larry Craig, could be livelier than a “Got a square to spare?” debate in an airport men’s room.)

Underwear is dangerous. Therefore, before underwear imparts more assault upon the ill-trained public, I say we ban it completely, except in dire cases of diarrhea or other booty leakage issues.

My tartish little friend V completely agrees. She wears the tiniest underwear possible now, hoping that gradually, one thong molecule at a time, her underwear will eventually disappear and no longer be a laundry issue. She noted that in the 1980s, all of us thought thongs were sandals. We knew no better when we squeezed into our three-sizes-too-small acid washed jeans; we simply went commando to eliminate the horror of panty lines. Of course, then, we merely courted the horror of yeast infections and Brillo-style abrasions, but those were minor issues compared to VPLs.

I personally have had many underwear horror stories. The worst was probably the compression “body-shaping” panties that caused violently puffy knees and a strangled spleen. There was also a glue-on bra incident that caused my breasts to appear to flee to separate bus stops; later, during a lively version of “The Twist,” the cups came unglued and migrated to support my kidneys, leaving my breasts to get into all sorts of unsupervised mischief.

I can remember my mom buying me factory second underwear at a local knitting mill. These drawers (they were more like “nun-derwear”) came five to a pack. Trust me—no one would even dust with underwear this unreliable and ugly. Often, it didn’t have elastic in the top or legs, so the underwear would head south for the winter and bunch up under my cheeks in suspicious lumps like a toddler’s diaper. Or sometimes it would creep so far up, I would gag on the fabric. Once (this is not a joke), I taped the underwear in place so I could get through a job interview and not worry about my capricious gypsy drawers peeking out of my blouse or shoe.

When I got my first job out of college, I raised my fist like Scarlett O’Hara, rising from the ashes of Tara and vowed, “I will never wear ugly-ass underwear a-gayun.” And I haven’t.

Now, in light of Macrida Patterson’s agonizing tort claim, I have re-ass-essed the underwear situation, and I think it would be safer if we just did without. I think this growing epidemic of butt-launched panty missiles is an issue of national security, and I urge others who feel the same way to contact National Security Advisor Steven Hadley and ask him what kind of underwear he is wearing. Tell him if he’s a true patriot, he will take off that Sexy Little Things V-string and go commando. Tell him Condoleezza did. Tell him your name is Jason Buccat.

I know it will be a relief to honorary THONG member Macrida Patterson when the only thing she has up her butt is her lawyer. She will feel more whole now that the world has heard her cautionary tail—er, tale—and has taken note of her plaintive cries. Or is that plaintiff?

Read old articles or drop Carolyna a note at www.myspace.com/carolynashelton.