Let me state for the record that I am a flaming heterosexual man who thinks there's nothing funnier than a dude rocking skin-tight, bikini-briefs in public. My sense of humor revolves around the absurdity of overt, male sex appeal. I pretend that by being the guy at every costume party who finds a way to take off his pants, I am making a statement about the constraints of masculinity in modern society, and fighting for the rights of men everywhere who want people to appreciate their under-celebrated thighs and man-bulges.
In reality I grew up worshipping muscular superheroes who all wore spandex underwear on the outside to facilitate their super-maneuvers. When I pretended to be a superhero, I just stripped to my briefs—which always sported Superman, Batman, or He-man's logo across my ass—then I ran around the yard flexing and using a wiffle-ball bat to sword fight my brother. This was what being a man meant to my prepubescent mind. No matter how much I suppress it, this same instinct to strip, flex, and perform super-tasks still emerges when I'm drunk.