My girlfriend demolished my last pair of old chonies last night. I had thought I was pretty fucking clear with her about my sentimental attachment to them the last time she destroyed a pair, or perhaps the time before that, or maybe the time before that.

Men are not supposed to throw tighty-whiteys away; they must gently fade and tear until they become translucent, nebulous things, things no longer of this earth, destined for a high purpose.

Holey chonies become holy chonies. Just ask the Pope.