Thongs

D-bags like to look at ladies. They are soft, warm, yielding, and their hair always smells of strawberries. What’s more, ladies are our moms, sisters, and the mothers of our kids. That’s why whenever a d-bag sees the ripe, fleshy hips of a lady being cut by a string of lace we take a second look. Thongs are to undergarments what muscle cars are to buggy whips. Thongs are a little Michelin road map to the holy, secret places that ladies protect to maintain their honor and chastity; they are a treasure trail of the sort that Nicholas Cage might follow into the bowels of Washington D. C. in order to find a secret scroll unopened since Thomas Jefferson explored Sally Hemings’ heart of darkness; they are the non plus ultra of negligee. Some folks think the best thongs are found on the beaches of Rio. Others prefer to see one riding up out of a plush forest of velour covering the apple-bottom rump of a cutie in a scrunchie, who is standing in front of us in line at the gas station. Most d-bags encounter thongs when having a brew at their local sports bar. Lady-Ds on barstools, pretending to be interested in BLKs FGAs and INTTDs, will lean forward on the bar to let a guy get a look at the stretchy, pink down-arrow that says, “hey, I might take it in the butt!”