And I’m not wearing any pants.

With possibly equal amounts of mischief and glee, I was able to send the following true text message to several people Sunday night:

It’s almost 11:00. I’m in the McDonald’s drive through. I’m not wearing any pants.

Those who know me know that I do, on occasion, crack myself up. This was one of those moments. Academically, I believe the humor in this lies in two parts: (1) the lack of any explanation and (2) “not wearing any pants.” I think the phrase “not wearing any pants” is inherently funny. As with Gary Larson's use of cows in The Far Side, it’s funny for any occasion. Or akin to Steve Martin’s hypothesis that any news will be perceived as just fine if accompanied by the banjo. (He posited that the banjo could have saved Nixon if he had just come out and said "Everything’s great!" while strumming. Or "I’d like to talk about foreign policy, but first, a little Foggy Mountain Breakdown.")

Such is the power of the pantless. Never apologize, never explain.

If this were an episode of Alias, we would now segue to "4 Hours Earlier" for the backplot. (I am explaining, but not apologizing.)

Sunday night was the Sweetheart's Ball at Sundance Saloon. It was also it's first underwear party ("Briefs, Bras, and Boots"). I had been very against the idea. And indeed in practice it was very much like "Sundance Saloon Goes to the Powerhouse." With a warm day, no A/C, and hundreds of dancers, the space quickly grew opressively hot. (And there was some serious O with the B's.) It was truthfully like trying to do an exercise class in a sauna. It was so hot and humid in there I got dizzy and even had to sit outside with my head between my legs for a while. There was sufficient playful peer pressure to lose the pants. But it was the heat that finally got me. I sweat completely through four shirts before I said F it and took off my heavy, wet, sweaty jeans.

Of course, ever in theme, I had heart boxers on. And man, as fervently against the idea as I had been, I became equally fervent in favor. Dancing in boxers is the only way to go. I love louging in boxers. I'm considering coming to work like this.

At the end of the night there was a big crowd at the clothes check trying to get dressed. But I was still warm outside and I didn't really care so I just took my bag of clothes and walked into the night—a vision in red tee, pink cowboy shirt, heart boxers, bare legs and boots. Then I joined the caravan jonesing for soda and fries in the McDonald's drive-through.

And I'm not wearing any pants.