My brother has a friend who recently stumbled into a forgotten shipment of brand new men’s extra short swim trunks from the 80’s. I think back then they were just called shorts, but these days that tan line starts at the knee…or occasionally mid-calf, depending on droop. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Whiskey happier about something more absurd than the moment he stepped out onto the deck of our rented family cabin wearing shorts with a hemline that would’ve required a fresh wax, had he been female.
“Check it out, I look like all of dad’s friends from every camping trip ever,” he said, “just add a down vest for warmth!” We all had a good laugh about fashion and the dangers of improper sitting in short shorts but then, weird thing, he didn’t go change into normal shorts. We weren’t even going swimming, he was just lounging around the cabin in oddly short shorts. They were, apparently, super comfortable.
The day wears on.
I’m sitting at the table knitting when I glance up and my brother is sitting at the bar chatting with someone in the kitchen, one leg propped up on the barstool and OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?
I look away, my eyes burning. “Goddammit, Whiskey! You can’t sit like that in those, you plum smuggling bastard!”
“Fine, I’ll sit outside in my hammock,” Whiskey mutters, “Ya prudes.”
I proceed to bang my head against the table in an effort to damage my short term memory when I hear my daughter’s delightfully matter of fact voice. “Uncle Whiskey, I can see your privates.”
The cousins collapse into hysterical laughter. Because privates.
And for Whiskey, the evening goes straight to hell because there’s no way we’re not gonna bring this up at every family function for the rest of eternity.
I’m thinking we may even bury him in those shorts.