Syntax Issue 10
Denver Syntax
{notes of a dirty young man:
    booty pop panties
        trey edgington

A couple weeks ago, I decided to spend some of my unemployment money on these Booty Pop Panties. I’m not gay and I don’t normally wear panties—not that I have a problem with that. It’s just that since I got out of the hospital last year, I have some body-image issues. I was about forty pounds over weight when I went into the hospital, which is crazy for me. It was all that goddamn sobriety; I ate crap constantly and didn’t exercise much. (I looked like a heroin addict when I was drinking, which was fine with me.) I lost about sixty pounds while I was in the hospital. I lost most of the muscle I had, though I still had a little belly. Can you believe that shit? Anyway, even when I was fat, I had a nice ass. I used to run and play soccer, and somehow my ass stayed nice even when I was drinking like a maniac. For example, this one doctor lady said she had a problem getting a syringe in my ass, which made me quite proud. But this long hospital stay killed my ass, the last thing I had left.

Then a couple of weeks ago, I saw and informercial for these Booty Pop Panties. I had been watching the Recovering Alcoholic with Bi-Polar Disorder and Diabetes Channel when the “Paid Programming” came on. I never watch that shit, but the first thing I saw was a shot of a hot chick running around in some low-rise blue jeans. I haven’t gotten any pussy since this goddamn sobriety happened, so I couldn’t help myself. It turned out that this hot chick with the great ass was the “before” example. I couldn’t believe it. (I have good taste in asses. Trust me.) I had to keep watching. Other hot chicks with great asses pranced around—also “before” examples. I had to see what these Booty Pop Panties did.

Finally, they got to it. The original hot chick walked across the stage waggling her ass in every direction. Much to my dismay, her ass looked fucking crazy. It actually pointed up. Popped up, I suppose. I decided then and there that I did not like the Booty Pop Panties. These asses seemed to be half-way up the girls’ backs—even though they were wearing low-rise jeans. I’ve taken physics and this shit just didn’t seem possible to me. But I kept watching. The next girl had a slightly flatter ass than the first, and the Booty Pop Panties actually made her ass look better. There were testimonials where the chicks said how much more confident they felt, how much more sexy they felt. This made me even hornier; confident, sexy-feeling chicks want to have sex a lot. Then commercial went back to showing the “befores” and “afters.” That’s when the shit got insane.

They showed this hot, black chick with an amazing ass. You know the kind I mean. Then they showed her in the panties, and it was terrifying. She looked like a crazy, booty-alien. Like maybe her over-sized alien brain was located there. Like she could send messages and turn your vital organs to mush with that thing. I couldn’t watch any more. These Booty Pop Panties were pretty much ridiculous, unless you were a hot chick with a very flat ass. I didn’t want to see anymore, didn’t want to have nightmares about booty-aliens. I went to pee, and that’s sort of when I went a little crazy.

I shook my pecker forever. (I had yanked a couple of catheters out while I was in the hospital, and broke my penis hole. It doesn’t look weird, but something is fucked up in there.) After the shaking, I looked at my ass in the mirror. I had pulled my jeans up and everything, but it was still a horrible sight. My ass was almost concave. I had noticed this before, but I guess I was extra ass-sensitive at that moment. I had to check out my ass in different outfits. First I put on my suit pants; it was worse. I put on some soccer shorts, and my ass looked like a wrinkled sheet of copy paper. I put on boxers. I put on bikini briefs. I put on some khakis and every pair of jeans I own. It didn’t matter; my ass looked terrible. What made my ass-problem even worse was that I had been working out pretty hard since I got out of the hospital. Running, bike, elliptical, and various other ass workouts. Nothing seemed to compare to the running and soccer I did fifteen years ago in high school. That’s when it hit me: Booty Pop Panties.

I ran back to the TV to get the phone number, but the show was over, and there were a couple of chicks selling wild-ass dildos and shit. That was the last thing I needed to see. I walked out the patio to smoke and think of something else to do about my ass. It was about five in the morning at that point, and the birds were starting to sing. I wanted those cocksuckers to shut the fuck up. What the fuck were they so happy about anyway? I thought about beating off to put myself in a better mood—a dumbass idea. But the internet was a good idea, and I punched myself for being so stupid not to think of it before. Bootypoppanties.com.

I tried that, but a bunch of weird shit came up. I googled it, and there it was. I looked all over the website for some Booty Pop Panties for dudes, but of course, they didn’t have any. I thought about ordering some girl ones, but I wasn’t sure what my size would be in girls’ panties. I was going to have to call and find out. I wrote down the phone number, wondering if I could sew some sort of extension in the front to fit my junk. I couldn’t ask my mom to do that, so hoped the home-ec skills I’d learned in seventh grade would get it done. Feeling more confident about my new ass, I took my depression and bi-polar pills, my sleeping pills, my vitamins, and my insulin. (Drinking was cheaper.) I logged on to tittygirls.com, beat off, and went to sleep.

When I got up the next day, I wasn’t sure if I should spend my unemployment money on panties. Maybe I could get in trouble for that. But one look at my ass told me to buy the panties immediately. I got the phone number, a notebook and pen, my coffee, my smokes, and my wallet and took all that shit out to the patio to do my business in private. I dialed the number with hope in my heart, already imagining my new ass.

“Booty Pop Panties. This is Jennifer. How can I help you?” Jennifer sounded smoking hot. I was sure she didn’t need any special panties, at least not the kind that made your ass look better.

I thought about hanging up but said, “Um, yeah, I have a few questions about your product. My name is Trey.”

“Okay, Trey. What would you like to know?” She sounded reluctant, probably because I’m a guy.

“Well, I was wondering about the sizes.”

“We have petite, small, medium, large, extra large, and XXL.” Her voice was kind of giving me a boner. (At least that still worked.)

“Mmm. My girlfriend…”

“Trey, can I give you some advice?” she interrupted. “You probably shouldn’t give your girlfriend Booty Pop Panties.”

I hadn’t really thought of that. “Oh, no! It’s not like that. She asked me to call about them.”

“Oh, okay. What size panties does she wear?” She sounded a little more enthusiastic now.

“That’s the thing. I forgot to ask,” I said.

“Is she a big girl, medium-sized girl, small?”

What the fuck size girl am I? “She’s kind of my size, I guess. I mean, she’s not like manly or anything. She has those soccer player/cheerleader legs, you know, so she’s thicker. I don’t mean fat at all. Very fit. I don’t even think she needs the Booty Pops, to tell you the truth. It’s just that she thinks her ass is getting flat.” I babbled on, not wanting Jennifer to think I had a large girlfriend. I was picturing Penny Buckley, a cheerleader from high school. Penny was super hot, and had the best ass ever. It was thick.

“What size are you then?” Goddamn, her voice was hot. Kind of scraggly, but not like some old, white-trash smoker lady.

“I wear a thirty-two, but I’m probably a thirty. You know, I don’t want my business hanging out in the street.” That’s true, but I also thought it might make her think about my pecker and stuff.

“Hmm,” she said. “You’re probably a medium. Or I mean, she’s probably a medium.” Jennifer sounded like she was starting to like me. In my head, she looked just like Penny.

“Okay, so how much do these drawers cost?” Shit, my dad would say drawers. Jesus. “Panties, I mean.”

She giggled a little and said, “The Booty Pop Drawers are $19.95 plus shipping, which is $6.95.”

I was sort of confused by all the shit in my head at this point. Jennifer’s voice. Penny Buckley’s ass. My boner. How I could date Jennifer? Where was this panty hotline located? If she would date an unemployed alcoholic who lived with his mom? How much money I had? And finally, my ass. What if we did hook up and she saw me in the Booty Pops? Jesus.

“I think I need to think about it. Can I call you back?” I asked.

“You can just go to the website, buybootypop.com, and order them there.”

Shit. “The thing is, I don’t really like to buy shit over the internet. I don’t want anyone ripping off my sizable bank account.” Why the fuck did I say that? “Anyway, you sound very trustworthy.”

“Thanks. Just call back, and someone will take your order,” she said.

“Do you have an extension or something? Maybe I could ask for you?” I said. “I don’t want you to miss out on a commission.”

“We don’t get commissions, but you can ask for me if you want.” She sounded like she wanted to talk to me again.

I had to get off the phone quick before our relationship went down the toilet. “Okay, thanks, Jennifer. I’ll call you back.” I hung up.

I was pumped about Jennifer and my new panties. I figured I was going to need at least two pair—for underwear emergencies and shit. I lit my last cigarette and wished the birds were still singing. I sang a Booty Pop Panty song I made up.

Having finished smoking, I drove to the store to get more cigarettes. That’s when everything crapped the bed, again. (I don’t know why that still shocks me, but it does.) My fucking car wouldn’t start when I got in it to drive home. I punched the roof of my car til I hurt my hand. Fuck fuck fuck. Now I have to get my car fixed and I won’t be able to afford my new drawers. I’ll never get any chicks with this ass. It’s bad enough I can’t drink, I live with my mom, and I have no money. Goddammit. I’m never getting laid again. Ever. Jennifer would maybe accept my other faults, but with no ass? No way.

The only reason I didn’t go back in the store and buy beer was that my pancreas—or what is left of it—would explode. I definitely didn’t care about dying, but I didn’t want to go out that way. The coma I was in was worse than the worst thing I could have imagined. And everyone I knew would hate me. Also, with my luck, I wouldn’t die. I would probably mess up my pecker even more and also have to get one of those insulin pumps. You can’t bang chicks with one of those on. Obviously, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.

I walked to the Goodyear by my house and had them tow my shit-ass Dodge Neon in. My mechanic guy, Tommy, drove me home. A few hours later, he called and said that some-such-shit was fucked up and that it was going to cost four hundred and twenty-five to fix it. I had exactly four hundred and twenty-eight dollars left of my unemployment money. No shit. I didn’t think of this as a blessing. It was hopeless. I was never going to get a girl like Jennifer. I was never going to get a job. I was never going to move out of my mom’s. I was never going to get my Booty Pop Panties.

A couple days later, I came up with a plan. I have no idea why I still come up with plans. Anyway, I decided to do like five times as many ass workouts as I was doing before. In the meantime, I was going to pray that I got the government extension on my unemployment benefits. If I did get the extra money, I would buy the Booty Pop Panties and everything would be okay. With my new ass, I would get a job, my own apartment, and a good girl. I was sure of it.

So far though, I haven’t gotten the money. I’m in the appeals process right now, but it’s not looking good. I wasn’t at my last job long enough or some shit. I’ve thought about calling Jennifer a few times, but I can’t bring myself to do it without the money to buy the panties. Going to the gym seems pointless. I dream about Bud Light and strippers every night—fucking nightmares. My life fucking sucks.