I want to start this one out by saying that if you are related to me in ANY way, please just stop reading. Seriously. Go. Leave, please. Go here. Seriously. Click that little orange here. Or that one. Just go away. Thank you.
When I was in the 6th grade, things started to fall into place. THOSE kinds of things. You know, special times in a young mans life, awkward moments in class, THE dream, those sorts of things. One of the things that got me were newspaper ads. Y'all know the ones. Glossy Sunday circulars that contained beautiful pictures of toys! I used to love getting those ads and looking at all the toys I wanted. I would make plans to swindle my parents into buying them for me, and if that didn't work, I could always just try to get my friends to swindle their parents into buying them, and then I could play with them that way.
Well, in the 6th grade, when that switch happened, I noticed another section in these ads. Guys, you're probably with me. The underwear ads. One day, looking for toys, I happened to catch a glance of a young lady by the name of...Kathy Ireland. I can safely say that this lady single handedly (no pun intended, heh) brought me into puberty. I can't help but wonder how many other young men she blasted into that humiliating, voice squeaking, acne pocked stage of life.
Folks, I was in love. By in love, I mean that I was thoroughly hormone obsessed with getting my hands on EVERY single picture of her I could; in her underwear. Now, it wasn't just her, but she was my obsession. I couldn't really have a "good time," if it wasn't her in the picture. She was the fuel for my testosterone induced bathroom breaks.
So I set up an operation. You would not believe how my crafty little mind worked. I would lay and wait for the Sunday paper to be thrown away, then I would sneak through the little trash can, and try to find a picture. When we would visit family, I knew where they kept their paper, and I knew the best way to get a hold on those ads, and the best way to dismiss myself to another room so I could get the pages out of them. If a family member or friend was moving, I was the FIRST one to volunteer to wrap breakables in paper, because that, my friends, was the Powerball jackpot of ads. I left a trail of missing pages all over Northeastern Oklahoma.
To this day, I don't know how I didn't get caught, and to be truthful, I may have. Nothing would have ever been said about it at my house. If I did get caught, I'm sure my poor parents were so sad that they had to go through this 3 more times. We were a very sheltered and protected conservative Christian family. I don't think my mother could have EVER worked up enough moxy to approach me about an ad stealing problem. Looking back, I should have just kept the whole ads, and if asked, just said, "Oh, I was just looking at the toys."
I never had a "pants malfunction" looking at toys though. That'd be a dead giveaway.
(Kathy, if by some chance you're reading this, I just want to apologize. Seriously though, what did you THINK would happen? Also, just wanted to say that never posing nude was classy. But I hated you for it. That's real.)