I demand the name of whoever is responsible for men’s underwear without dickholes in 2023

I had one of the worst days of my life today. What happened? Well, it all started Christmas day, 2019.

I was opening the third gift from my precious and thoughtful wife: a 3 pack of Layer 8 printed boxer briefs. One plain gray pair, and two pairs of digital camo, so i can keep a low profile while roaming around my scenic apartment complex. They were fucking sweet. They featured athletic performance spandex, which was perfect because I’m a fucking athlete. The moisture wicking material would keep me dry as I aggressively pound away on my computer at work. The only problem was they were a little long for my liking, so they were crisply folded and gently placed in the bottom of my panty drawer for a rainy day.

Fast forward to today. I got lazy with my laundry routine and was down to my last 3 pairs of undies: the Layer 8 printed boxer briefs with industry leading performance moisture wicking technology for world class athletes. I’m excited, erect even, at the thought of the violent and incredibly productive beating I’d give the hardware in my cube while staying perfectly dry in these bad boys.

Then it happened.

The beating I routinely hand out to my equipment requires me to suck down more water than Michael Phelps freestyling across Lake Minnewanka. Eventually, it was time for my first piss of the day.

So there I am. 4:30 p.m. at the prime, slightly-shorter-than-the-others urinal, ureter pulsing as it’s bursting at the seams. I unzip my timeless Abercrombie and Fitch designer jeans, worn by many presidents before me, and reach inside to weave my mushroom worm through the opening.

Mother of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

The Layer 8 printed boxer briefs with industry leading performance moisture wicking technology for world class athletes didn’t have such an opening. Nothing but a barrier, much like a Trump-funded wall between his dream WASP sanctuary and a hispanic nation.

Who the fuck is responsible for this design in the year 2020?

Do all-time great athletes not piss too? What do they do? Just hold it until their uterus explodes? Flop their dick and supple balls over their waisteband like a caveman?

Who would want to piss directly next to a barbarian in the slightly-higher-than-my urinal, ignoring the one on the end away from mine, while someone is hanging full Squidward? We live in a society.

If I found the name of the terrorist responsible for forcing me to partake in such an atrocity, I swear to Digger Phelps, I’d press charges.

So, there I am, I hanging full Squidward, wondering if any of my internet friends would do the same. Would they elect to drop their trousers around their ankles, Butters style? Im sure at least one would, while massaging his asshole to overcome his crippling stage fright, but the others wouldn’t. So I did what my self-respecting companions would do.

The full unit depressingly flops over my ever-so-flexible waistband.

The stream starts, much weaker than usual, which normally carries much more velocity than the average adult male, probably because of my compact yet efficient stature. The stream stops.

Oh no.

The force of the waisteband driving into my underdick squeezed my piss pipe shut. I can feel the ocean of pee filling behind the dam. Frustrated, I rip the pantyline away from my crank.

Oh no.

The backed-up stream resumes with such ferocity, such pure brute force, that dong manure is splashing all over the restroom. The jet comes to a merciful end, and the pain sets in.

My urethra is slightly torn.

One of the worst days of my life, all because of that 1 minute and 39 seconds.

It’ll never be the same, but my peepee and I will come out of this stronger than ever.

By MacB

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