“Dude, underwear is just so, like, oppressive. I don’t want that kind of shit.” Semi-dreads broke the pristine silence, shaking his friends out of their trances with his seemingly random sentiment. Small smiles crept onto their faces as they started to comprehend and reflect on what semi-dreads had said.
They were sitting on the stone steps near the quad behind Whiting Hall, staring silently into the night sky. They didn’t say anything for a while, merely sat and thought. Semi-dreads took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, taking a drag while the others were still lost in thought.
“But, like, c’mon man,” the one with horn-rimmed glasses finally replied. “Underwear is made to protect our most vulnerable parts!”
“Our dicks?” the one with red hair asked, using his ID card to get dirt out from under his fingernails.
“Yeah, absolutely,” horn-rimmed glasses answered. “There is nothing more important than protecting our dicks.” Semi-dreads offers him a cigarette, which he accepts with a curt nod. He takes a drag, and then exhales into the open sky.
“Man, my dick doesn’t even need protecting.” At this, all of them burst out laughing, their voices ringing throughout the cold night air. “Honestly, I want to feel a cold zipper on my dick. It makes me more of a man, it makes me more confident, and it makes my dick stronger.”
“Yeah man,” the mousey one says, trying not to giggle too loudly. “Underwear is just, like, so inefficient. It’s stupid.”
“True.” Semi-dreads jumped up from the steps and onto the field, laying on the grass and sighing contentedly. “Underwear is just like bureaucracy; it’s just an extra step in the way of you getting your dick out.”
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