Every sock, every shirt, every towel, every facecloth, every doily, every handkerchief, Corb's lederhosen and his codpiece...all of them were put through the rinse cycle, whether they needed it or not. And, since Corb was working yesterday afternoon, I took it upon myself to fold every piece of laundry that we own in the house.
And what, I hear you ask, did this exercise in domesticity reveal to me? What insights did I receive, as I sat there, cross legged in my shorts, morosely watching episodes of Gilmore Girls and Angel ?
I'm glad you asked! Just something that I've often suspected, but never had the means to prove: Corb is the only person I know who owns more underwear than shirts.
Don't believe me? Just take a look at this:
My expert research, based on hours of toil, reveals that Corb has a full TWO INCHES more underwear-type clothing than he does shirt-type clothing. The facts are clear, and conducted in a more scientific manner than those kind folks who are trying to cram creationism down the throats of Biology students in classrooms across America.
At least, I am comforted in knowing that, should Corb get in a car accident, he will undoubtedly have on a clean pair of skivvies. Even so, I'm not exactly certain why he feels the need to derive comfort from possessing such an insane amount of undergarments. Was it childhood trauma? Was he forced to freeball it for the first five years of his life? I shall endeavor, in the next few days, to delve deeper into this mystery, and report back my findings to--
*TRANSCRIPT ENDS AT THIS POINT, AS LARGE BLUNT OBJECT CRASHES UPON THE HEAD OF NOCOMPROMISES*