Hecho En Vietnam

They’re a bit wrinkled. Should probably fix that. Yeah, that’s not happening.

     NOTE: The following has very little to do with Vietnam.  As you read further, you’ll see what I mean.  In fact, I know very little about Vietnam, apart from where it is and that a fat Marlon Brando once waddled around its jungles while a thin Martin Sheen went mental there.  I did coach a soccer team with a man from Vietnam once, though.  He was a real nice guy who had mad soccer skills, even though I questioned his penchant for using punji sticks during defensive drills.  What’s more, I had a devil of a time understanding him (although, to be fair, if I tried to order lunch in Ho Chi Minh City, I’d probably get a rectal exam.  Unless that’s part of their culture.  Who am I to judge?).  Anyway…

“The horror.”

     As you’ve no doubt surmised (snooty word for “figgered out”), I often look at things in a, shall we say, wiseguy kind of way.

     If I see something which strikes me as funny, I’m of course going to make things worse by pointing it out or even correcting what I think was a slip of the tongue, grammatically speaking (medically speaking is a whole ‘nother ball of wax).

     That being the case, though, I have cut down on pointing out the verbal and spelling gaffes of others, even though I thought I was being cute by doing so.  I came to the conclusion that I was being somewhat of a douche.

     However, I still notice the odd bits of life.  So, if you throw me a softball that I just can’t help putting over the fence in a double entendre kind of way (especially in a double entendre kind of way), I probably won’t be able to help myself.  It’s a sickness.

See? Like this. I can’t resist this kind of stuff.
Like I said. It’s a sickness.

     So it was this morning with my underwear (no, NOT by what was in it.  Although…).  As I was getting ready to start my strenuous day of lounging about, I read the care label on my skivvies (boxer briefs, in case you dig knowing that sort of thing).

     Hey, I left my cell phone in my room.

     I saw that they were “Hecho En Vietnam.” (Language Tip: This means, “Made in Vietnam” for those who took “History of Flan” in high school instead of language classes or who are too cheap to buy Rosetta and the Family Stone lessons).

     It caused me to wonder.  Is underwear-making such a complicated science that it needs to be shipped overseas?  Or is it so damn simple that the Vietnamese can handle it?  It’s obviously a money thing, but for cryin’ out loud, it’s only a cloth pouch for the boys, not sex robots.

     As I looked at it further (I was still busy doing bidness, if you know what I mean), I saw that, under the English writing, were washing and care instructions in Spanish.

     Why not Vietnamese?  Or do the Vietnamese not wear underwear?  Or, as I suspect, are the Vietnamese so smart they don’t need to be told how to wash their frikkin’ drawers?  I don’t know, maybe a combination of the two.  Going “commando” can be liberating, after all.

And why Spanish? Do people assume that Hispanics need to have that kind of information while white people don’t?

     I further noticed the following (in English and Spanish): “Cool iron if needed.”

     Excuse me, who the hell irons their underwear!!??

     I didn’t even press my tighty-whiteys in boot camp.  And they made us shave our chest hairs. 

     On further deliberation, I guess maybe you’d want starchy drawers if you were visiting Michael Jackson’s gravesite (oooh, sorry.  Too soon?).  Plus, what if you got into an accident?

     “It’s hard to tell what caused this horrific accident, Sarge.”
     “Any evidence of speeding?”
     “Not that I can see.”
     “Drinking?”
     “No, but his skivvies were wrinkled.”
     “Well, there’s your answer!”

     So, maybe I oughta plug my iron in because there’s no sense in having creases in my “gotchies.”

     But, first, I think I’ll give that guy from the soccer team a call.  Maybe he can give me some advice.

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