I’m a big fucking dude. Just big, now. No longer fat. I used to be kind of fat. Even though I lifted weights and ran like a maniac, I ate like shit and drank far too much beer. This is no longer the case. I don’t drink anymore, I’ve cleaned up my diet, and I’m doing everything the right way. I still lift weights like a madman, though, so I’m still significantly larger—in both height and muscle mass—than the average American male.
Not that height has anything to do with lifting weights, mind you. I just wanted to emphasize that I’m not a little New York dickhead with a Napoleon complex. I’m too tall to have one.
This all leads to severe complications with my laundry. My size and my activity level make managing laundry a royal pain in the schlong. I have an in-house washer and dryer now, but when I’ve used laundromats—or the laundry rooms of the buildings I’ve lived in—I’d always walk in with triple the amount of shit everyone else seemed to have.
People always want to know why I check a bag for a two-day business trip. It’s because I can’t wear clothes for more than a few hours without completely fucking them up.
Dress clothes? Fuck that, man. My shit gets ruined before I even leave for work. Especially during the summer, the simple act of putting on a shirt cancels out the money I spent to get the shit dry cleaned in the first place.
That’s why I’m convinced that Under Armour is the greatest clothing company in the history of mankind:
Every piece of workout clothing I own is made by Under Armour. So is every pair of underwear, every pair of socks (even my “dress” socks), every undershirt, and every pair of cargo shorts I wear in the summer.
The underwear, especially, is a must-have. It’s the single best shit I own. After using this stuff for the past year or so, I’ll never, ever wear anything else. If I knew about Under Armour’s socks and underwear while I was bouncing—a piece of shit job where you’re supposed to stand in one place for hours on end, then engage in periodic bursts of fighting with drug-addled Guido fuckbags who want to stab you—I probably wouldn’t have been pissed off enough to start this blog.
If you’re as abusive of your clothing as I am, get yourself two pair for every day of the week. You’ll thank me for it.