YOU HAVE ME CONFUSED WITH SOMEONE ELSE

If you came to this blog, it was because of several possible interests. You could be into pipe-tobacco (which most of my readers aren't), Middle-Eastern bloodshed (much the same as pipe-tobacco), food, odd linguistic stuff, Dutchness, Chinatown, neighborhoods in Hong Kong, or animal tales. There's even a chance that you are fascinated by clothing. Specifically, stylish clothing, emphasis on underwear. Such as is suitable for poncing around the house while wearing, along with a briar pipe in the mouth, or enjoying a small cigarillo and a cup of strong coffee.
Male or female. Private poncing makes no gender distinction.
What you do in your underwear is nobody's business.

[NOTE: Over two weeks ago I analysed visitor data, and took one finding as the premise for a post. Happily, and tongue-in-cheekily, I speculated that enormous numbers of Russians in the hinterlands of Muscovy were cruising the internet for naked men, such as I myself daily am. See this essay: 'naked and alone'.
Then a dreadful realist called me back down to earth, by stating the obvious: "some sort of trolling tool has your site logged and it trolls the site for comments that contain e-mail addresses to use for phishing/spam. No one from Russia is actually visiting this site. If you utilize Google Analytics, you'll see that the majority of hits from the Ukraine, Russia and China are on the site from 0- 10 seconds. Trolling tools. Not readers." Which, had he been a regular reader of this site, he would have realized I already knew, seeing as I've often mentioned spam-bots and gibberant commentary underneath posts. Never-the-less, the idea that depressed Slavic types choose to cheer their grim selves up by exploring the wonderful world of Nakedmanistan amuses me. Hence the occasional mention of middle-aged male nudes. I am male, past my twenties, and when circumstances require not fully clothed.]

Underwear. Boxer shorts. Grandaddy pants. Scanties. Little scraps of fabric. He-man garments. Long Johns, Short Johns, and perhaps No Johns At All. The tent where Jones lives. Loin cloth or more.



DOS UNTERVESH

You will be pleased to know that today is a happy underwear day.
Not female gatkes -- comfy or otherwise -- but boxers.
Stylish short-like garments for smoking.
Cigarillo now, pipe later.

Today I am wearing octopussy pants. Pale green boxers with a pattern of smiling octopuses. Octopodi. Octopi. Eight-legged aquatic beasties with big grins on their ponims. Their good cheer is my good cheer.
I've got other happy undergarments.
One with little owls.
Also happy.


Under my clothes, cephalopods.
Imagine that.


AFTERWORD

The primary reason for bringing this up is that another person recently called me "mister grumpy pants". I wish to assure him and everybody else that I am NOT a grumpy pants. More a 'dancy pants' type, or a 'bemused pants', 'dreaming pants', 'eating dinner pants', or, last but not least, a 'happy pants' type. As well as 'octopussy pants'.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================