I WROTE THIS PANTLESS
Wearing Pants Is an Obstruction of Our Basic Human Rights
Or, how Big-Pants propaganda has had us all believing a lie for centuries
So here’s one of the few good things to come from lockdown and a year of working from home: I stopped wearing pants.
For our American readers, I don’t mean I walk around with my little man bouncing around 24/7, I’m not an animal.
I’m British, so when I say pants I mean underpants.
How can anyone wear them? What kind of sociopath can honestly look me in the eye and tell me they’re comfortable? They aren’t. They’re an evil in the world we have all accepted, like capitalism, Amazon, and an eight hour working day.
We all know it, yet we do nothing about it.
In this constructed society we’re all thrust in to with no choice, when our parents decide without our consent to birth us in to the world, we’re born free and then swiftly bundled in to a nappy (diaper, Americans) and that is how we live our entire lives: trained from infancy to wrap our nether regions in as much material as possible.
Along with that, we are given a list of equally pointless and often cruel rules to follow from day one:
- No flatulence in public.
- An apple a day keeps the doctor away.
- Turn your clocks back an hour in Autumn, and forward in Spring.
- Cursing is bad and the word cunt is the worst of all.
- Eat with a knife and fork, not your hands.
- You must get on the property ladder and aim to climb it like the fires of hell are reaching ever closer behind you.
- The key to a successful life is ownership of material things that will pass on to undeserving offspring the day you succumb to the natures of humanity and the universe, or some dickhead driver knocks you down in the street.
- Ties are essential in job interviews.
Each as cruel as the last. This is not an exhaustive list, by any means, and you may well have others. We’re a species of liars, after all. Lying is the very fabric of our society.
All of these rules are akin to locking an albatross in a birdcage. It has the power and ability to fly for months without landing, crossing the globe with just a few dozen flaps of its gigantic wingspan, and yet is forced to be stationary, sit on a perch and eat crackers while staring at metal bars all day.
It’s unnatural. It’s cruel.
And this brings me back to pants.
Not that I’m comparing my member to an albatross, mind you. A red robin is probably more fitting. But either way the pants are a cage.
Our species didn’t evolve to wear tightly constrained fabrics around our genitals. Pants offer no protection from damage, and our male bodies have already evolved to ensure optimum warmth for the production of sperm.
Pants are there because someone years ago decided that a dick and balls was a private matter and no one should have to look at them.
And that’s fine. I don’t disagree with that.
In fact, I’d like that on record, please:
I’m not a pervert or a nudist or something. I don’t want to look at people’s dicks.
But we have trousers, shorts, jeans, hot-pants, kilts, slacks — basically all of the outer wear on our lower halves to keep that stuff private. Why do we need the additional briefs underneath? The simple answer is we don’t.
And I don’t want to hear about them being essential for men like bras are for women. For a lot of women, bras are a just another cage, whereas for others, they are important for back health and shoulder support.
No man has ever complained of a bad back or sore thighs because of his dangling fella.
And I also don’t want to hear about hygiene. Sure I might go for a wee and have a little dribble sometimes, but it’ll dry. Better that than those dribbles being hidden on some sweaty, smelly underpants festering underneath those clean, dry jeans for ten hours a day.
The underpants industry has convinced us of their essential nature much like the cereal industry convinced us that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. It isn’t. Don’t believe the propaganda. Have breakfast for dinner if you want.
So this is my stand: a world without boxers, briefs, y-fronts, whatever you want to call them.
A life of comfortable breezes down there, freedom, and a lack of overheating.
If you see me readjusting from time to time, that is a necessary trade off: I am not playing with myself, I am just continuing to enjoy maximum comfort.
There’s no going back.
If I’m ever forced back in to the real world in a suit and tie, I’ll be sitting in that meeting room watching some bozo deliver a PowerPoint presentation on effective workplace communication or some crap, and on the outside I’ll look like everyone else. But on the inside, underneath that outer layer of pressed trousers and belt, I will be free as God intended.
Free as the wind blows. Free as the grass grows. Free to follow my heart.
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