What kind of party would I throw with unlimited money? An underwear party on the International Space Station. Yup.
“But, I feel insecure in my underwear. I’m not space underwear party ready.” You say to me with furrowed brow and trembling hands.
And, I take your hands in mine, and look with stoic confidence in your eyes, like a father would to a child, and speak with quiet wisdom, “Oh my precious, naive, little lamb. The international space station is anti-gravity…”
“So, you mean, my saggy bits –”
“They will rise on cherub wings my pudgy pal. Everything looks sexy in space.”
Suddenly, the realization of space sexification washes over you like a soothing ocean wave of sexy space logic. But, a new question bubbles behind it.
“What if someone gets into a fight at the party?”
Sensing your anxiety, I cup my hands beneath your chin, and quiet the roaring winds of worry behind your eyes as I let these words unfurl from my lips: “Have you ever seen anyone fight in their underwear? Of course not. It can’t be done. Being angry in your underwear is instant hilarity. Nothing can be taken seriously when you’re in your underwear. When the walls are down, compassion is set free. And by walls, I mean pants. The Dalai Lama is the embodiment of kindness, because the man pretty much just wears a sheet. If the UN would check their pants at the door, we’d have world peace in less than six months.”
And, the world peace potential of space underwear rejuvenates your faith in this party and in humanity itself – and you RSVP with sexy spacified zeal.
Oh yeah. I’d also probably play a lot of 90’s Hip-Hop. Keepin’ it G in zero G, you dig?
Price: Eight bananas