Every day is the same. You wake up, shave, go for a run, eat your Peanut Butter Toast Crunch, take your shower, head into the office, zone out at your computer for the first hour or so. The usual 8:30 a.m. urge to pee lures you into the bathroom, and then you unzip and reach for what needs to be reached for and... nothing!
Whoah. Is this some sort of dream? A life lived in zombified stasis shocked out by the realization that you suddenly have no penis. Perhaps it's emasculation by the subconscious, making some sort of comment on your lack of resolve and self-determination by seizing your virility. All that filters through your mind in a split second of nervous frenzy, and then your index finger brushes against cloth.
This is reality. No dream. Your manhood is still there, not vanished but covered. You just put your boxers on backwards.
What can be done to correct such an error? Nothing immediately, for nature's call must be answered. In an act of contortion worthy of Cirque du Soleil, you yank up the right leg of the shorts, twist to the left and let flow. Only midstream does it occur to you that a simple pull-down would have not only taken less physical exertion, but also decreased the risk of splashage on the side of your pant leg, which teeters all to close to the base of the raging flow, which channels like the output of a firehose, extinguishing an imaginary blaze with fury before gracefully, morosely, sliding down to the base, where its sulphuric pungency is mitigated by the brave pink pisser freshener disk. You wait it out 30 seconds, then 60, and finally the Splash Mountain surge throttles down into a lazy It's a Small Word drift, and intense concentration manages the changing trajectory so it doesn't defile your Levi 501s. The nervous beads of sweat on your forehead facilitate chills of euphoria as the inner water ceases without incident. You are relieved that the catastrophe from Mrs. Carvinger's first grade class was not repeated, and you will not have to go to the office to change into a ratty pair of shorts from the lost and found, and you would not have to grudgingly fold your disgracefully soaked pants into a paper bag, to be left by your desk the rest of your day like a brown-bagged scarlet letter as you learned the finer points of addition and vowels, then shielded the bag from your mother after she picked you up, spotting, as mothers do, what you were trying to hide within the first seconds, and unknowingly rubbing in the pain by asking, "What's in the bag?"
No, you live to pee another way. But still you are confronted with the problem of having your underwear on wrong, causing a Rubik's Cube inside your pants, taunting you with its complex web of impossibility.
Your right brain screams for you to just rotate the boxers around as if they were a sock, but the leg holes prohibit that technique. It occurs to you that there that the only option is to start from square zero. You must hole up in a stall, untie your shoes, take the pants and underwear off, double check you've got it right before you zip up again, then try to resume your day. All the levels of bureaucracy to right your disaster crush your very essence, pinning you into paralysis. For though you'd like to have your underwear on correctly, the steps it will take to get there are all too discouraging.
No, you will not retool, for the same reasons you are not an FBI agent or a lawyer. You have spotted an easier route and taken it, reasoning that the relief it will yield to attain the ideal boxer formation is not worth the effort. You will plug through your day with drawers on backwards, confident that since you survived the first trip to the bathroom without incident, you will surely survive a second. You sit back down at your desk to space out at the computer once again, downstairs senses amped to a higher level. Yes, you can feel it. You can't imagine that everything is all right, not with such unfamiliar constriction upfront and terrifying unshelteredness in the back. That slit in the front of the boxers - it most certainly matters. But your decision is made, and nothing shall be done. Your heart longs for tomorrow, when you'll get to start over and set things right, like the prayers for resurrection in a church, wishing defeated lives out of boredom and poverty into an ethereal promise of rapture. Dreams of tomorrow are only an opiate escape from your current doom, which you have not only originated on accident but chosen. Irrevocably, backwards underwear is your reality, your eternity, your lot. You adjust your pants and start typing away.