That’s right kids, it’s Friday and I couldn’t possibly be more excited! Why? You ask with child – like wonderment in your oddly gigantic eye balls. I’ll get to that in a minute, but first I need to get something off my chest.
Next to brewing beer…and spending time with my daughter…and playing hockey… and playing disc golf…probably my most favorite way to spend my time is in front of a fire cooking up tasty cuts of meat.
While I am no beer snob (except for PBR and Stag…both of which roughly taste like what I imagine cat piss would taste like), I am very much a barbecue snob. I won’t even abbreviate it. I punch myself in the leg every time I catch myself using it as a verb. It’s nothing I take lightly.
I, Seth Treptow, threw away…an old pair of underwear.
It’s nothing I’m particularly proud of.
I don’t know when this particular pair of underwear came into my life, but it had probably in rotation for several years. It was never the fanciest of pairs. Just your standard cotton boxer briefs. You know, the ones that come in a four pack from Hanes. Far from elegant, but more than capable of getting the job done. During its time of service, it had performed incredibly admirably, always without fail. It supported my junk and absorbed my funk with the best of them. And for that, I am extremely appreciative.
But over the last few cycles of wearing, I have noticed that this pair, which I will affectionately refer to henceforth as “Old Blue,” had become increasingly holy. And by holy, I don’t mean religious…not like those super sexy undergarments the Mormons sport. No. I mean that Old Blue was getting tattered and worn beyond the point of functional usefulness.