Saturday, May 19, 2012

The New Black Panties

So, last Saturday, I'm entering Cracker Barrel to meet my Spiritual Mentor, Terry Horne, for our weekly breakfast. I'm actually early for a change, something that doesn't happen often (just ask him). I head straight for the bathroom, which is my first ritual every week upon arriving, late or not. 

It's not that I want to look good for him. It's just that I normally don't look good period, so I have to check myself out to make sure I'm modestly presentable to the world. 

It's not vanity, folks. It's insecurity.

It's also consciousness of the fact that most people you see in a day's time left their house that morning thinking they looked good enough to go out into public. 

Anyway, I'm walking to the bathroom, and I stop short in my tracks, because I see this black-fabric-silky "thing" on the floor. The first thought that pops into my mind is "PANTIES!," a word that is titillating in and of itself (almost as titillating as the word titillating).

The second thought is, "Who in the hell would lose their panties in Cracker Barrel?!" 

I mean...stop, people. Think. This is Cracker Barrel. Dinner Destination every week (sometimes, every day) for millions of overweight, oxygen tank-lugging, tubularly enhanced seniors who want that overly processed, highly manufactured taste of Dead Mom's down-home-on-the-farm cookin'.

No one wears silky, sexy panties to Cracker Barrel, especially not with the intent of losing them!

I mean, how many pimps do you know who sell their wares out of Cracker Barrel?

Although, given the nature of sex and nursing homes these days, that market...may be...opening up. 


Cracker Barrel is the place where any given morning you can down your coffee and indigest your eggs while humming along to the (?)best(?) that bluegrass has to offer. 

And how many couples do you know who use bluegrass to get into the mood?

As you can gather, yeah. I love the place. I really do. It makes me feel as "country" as Olive Garden makes me feel Italian. 

But still...losing panties in Cracker Barrel?? I can imagine someone losing their panties in the parking lot of, say, Wendy's. (I used to clean that parking lot every morning, so I have professional experience.) But again...Cracker Barrel?

Apart from my initial thoughts, my instinct was to sidestep the black mass and go into the bathroom. Which I did. 

I have a thing about instincts, though. I only half-follow them. On my way out of the bathroom (wherein I discovered that I looked positively...drab, in a dashingly Saturday-A.M. sorta way), I glanced down at the panties again, my curiosity piqued.

"Are they really panties?"

"Maybe. Maybe it's just a scarf-thingie that women like to wear?"

"Maybe. Maybe they're not panties at all."

"Either way, how many people will walk through here and do what I did? Walk by them and not be a Good Samaritan to those that scarf-thingie?"

"This will create awkward moments all morning, because I know they won't tell anyone up front. Not in this conservative area where kissing is considered a slippery slope. Who wants to be associated with the discovery of panties at Cracker Barrel? That's like discovering a Playboy in a Bible commentary. Everyone looks, but no one tells."


"I'm a good citizen. And I'm aware of my civic duties. Maybe I should..."

All of those thoughts played out as I paced around the Cracker-Barrel store, which features assembly-line reproductions of homemade items your local crafts shop used to sell (not to mention...every album of...the Gaithers!!). 

I've since embellished those thoughts to reflect more than the lustful, panties-filled thoughts that were intermingled with my intelligent deductive reasoning...

...deductive reasoning that led me to...

...pick the panties up...

...(using my thumb and pointer finger, of course)...


...just to make sure they were panties, I kinda unfurled them (they weren't splayed out on the floor, but in a half-bundle). (Something about that last parenthetical statement amuses me.)

They were panties.

They weren' wasn't the scarf-thingie that women like to wear.

So, I ever so discreetly, using the same discretion that I trust the original wearers of the panties used to get them off, approached the hostess and ever so quietly said, "I think I found these panties on the floor over there."

Her response?

"Oh, well, that's awkward."

At which point, she took them from me and said, "I'll just put them in Lost and Found over here." And proceeded to seat me.

The ironies and awkwardies surrounding the placement of a mysterious pair of (presumably used) black panties in the Cracker Barrel Lost and Found didn't hit me right away.

But what did hit me was the realization that I had just picked up someone (else)'s used pair of panties.

I had picked them up.

With my hands.

My hands.

I made a beeline for the bathroom to douse and lather and thoroughly rinse my hands with soap and water. 

On the way back to my seat, the hostess passed me, also on her way to the bathroom, a rather disturbed look on her face, as she said, "I think I need to wash my hands. I just thought about what I picked up."

I chuckled and proceeded to enjoy my meal.

But on the way out after breakfast, the same hostess came up to me again and whispered...

..."I wonder if I should tell everyone else that there's a pair of panties in the Lost and Found."


  1. picked them up? There is not enough soap in this world that would make my hands feel clean ever again. I cannot believe you picked them up!

  2. I'd like to nominate this for "Story of the Year"!

    The letters ROTFLMAO probably first came together over THIS very story!

  3. @Angel... Yeah, I picked 'em up. It was...not one of my bright moments. Perhaps I have a sensor that overrides my commonsense whenever a situation could produce a good blog post... ;-)

    @Joe Well, thank you, suh! I graciously and humbly accept your nomination. I trust the award is called the ROTFLMAO Story of the Year award, and the trophy is a pair of (unused) golden panties. :-D