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Always Wear Nice Underwear

Updated: Nov 22, 2021

I have made many trips to the chiropractor in my later years. The old back began going downhill at age 38. I'm guessing it has a lot to do with years of standing and lifting heavy things improperly. Restaurant work definitely has quite the impact on a spine. The biggest lesson my bad back taught me was always to wear nice underwear.

I was complaining to Scott about my back pain again. I'm sure he was getting tired of hearing me whine, so he recommended his chiropractor. I was never too big on taking any drug to kill the pain, and my rationale has always been pretty straightforward. If something hurts, I want to know it hurts so I can fix it. I realized I would be making many trips to the doc but figured it was the right decision. Adjusting my back and changing my lifestyle seemed like a better choice than masking the pain and hurting myself more later.

I had no idea what to expect when I walked into the little office. I was warmly greeted and asked to fill out several papers. The receptionist was charming and quite pleasant. I took a seat and began the paperwork. Occasionally I would look up to explore the waiting room, and each time an employee entered the area to call a patient or hand papers to the receptionist, I noticed a trend. Every single female in that office was gorgeous. I was beginning to think a requirement to work there included at least one appearance in the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. I'm not kidding; each one of those women is destined to have remarkably beautiful children. It got to the point where it seemed as though they were all walking in slow motion preparing for a pillow fight. I kept expecting a bunch of college kids to rush in with plastic swimming pools full of jello. I even took a second to check for hidden cameras behind the potted plants.

As my thoughts and eyes were both wandering around the room desperately searching for one average woman so I could confirm I was not dreaming, it happened. "Mr. Sherron," I heard in the distance as if waking from a deep sleep. Enveloped in the atmosphere, she had to call my name a second time before I could react. Finally, I stood up and followed Kate Upton to the room. She asked me to have a seat and assured me the doctor would be in right away.

A few moments passed, and I heard a subtle knock at the door. To no surprise, a stunning tall blonde chiropractor made her entrance. She asked me several questions. I was so taken back by the whole experience; yes was my standard answer for everything. Who knows what she asked me. She could have said, "Mr. Sherron, do you find zombies remotely attractive and butt snort sniffle mulch," My response would have been yes, accompanied by a nervous grin. She then spoke four words I will never forget. This particular sentence broke through my cloudy little dreamy fantasy like an ice bath. She said, "take your pants off."

At that moment, I began to panic. My heart and mind began to race frantically. "I can't remove my pants." I thought to myself. The chiropractor is like the dentist. My good underwear is reserved for a physical in a regular docs office. No way I'm taking off my pants and revealing my shark attack boxers. What would James Bond do in this situation? Well, first of all, his boxers would have been silk, and secondly, they would've not been torn to shreds. The chiropractor would unsuccessfully kill him then they would have sex. None of that would remotely happen to me, ever.

(hear me tell the story)

The only thing left was my waistband. I was pretty much-going commando. Politely I asked why I had to take off my pants. The doc told me we needed an x-ray. "Damn it," I thought to myself, never saw the x-ray thing coming. She asked if I was alright, and I decided to let her know about my dilemma. In a business-type voice, she assured me she had seen it all in her lifetime, and it was no big deal. I removed my pants and immediately felt a cold draft surround my frank and beans. Between the arctic air and extreme humiliation, shrinkage was unavoidable.

She had me lying on a tiny table, lifting my legs, turning, and bending in all sorts of weird angles. A man can only take so much before he becomes numb to any circumstance. I finally stopped caring by the time she asked me to stand for my x-ray. I kept looking down at my chilly little bishop wishing the room was a tad warmer. She asked me to be still then started fiddling with the equipment. For one reason or another, the x-ray machine wasn't working. I was ready to get dressed when she told me to hold tight while she went to get help. I have to admit, making a run for it crossed my mind. Before I could make a move, she returned with two Victoria's Secret models.

They all tinkered with the x-ray machine while I stood there desperately wishing my fireman was in full uniform.

The device was finally working, and the x-ray Sports Illustrated shark attack boxer predicament had come to an end. I was allowed to leave with my pants shortly after.

Before going home to ponder what had just happened, I made one stop. I was not about to go another day without new undies. I immediately threw any damaged undergarments away and replaced them with briefs worthy of James Bond. Anytime your mother preaches the importance of always wearing nice underwear, please listen.

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