Back in the so-called “good old days,” colleges across America had a tradition: the pantie raid. Young men, fueled by hormones and cafeteria coffee, would storm the dormitories of young women and run off with undergarments like they were prized war trophies. History books call it “campus culture.” Police reports called it “breaking and entering.”
I never really understood it. Why risk arrest, humiliation, and possibly an RA with a baseball bat… just for a pair of bloomers? But apparently, it was all in the name of “fun.”
And then it happened to me.
Not in college dorms, not even at some toga party gone sideways. No — mine came late in life. I woke up one morning to find that my drawer of finely curated underthings had been raided. Silk boxers, gone. My collection of commemorative Fruit of the Looms, vanished. And right in the middle of the pile, a ransom note written in glitter pen:
“Chicks dig me. – Signed, Everyone Else”
At first, I thought it was Joey pulling one of his pranks. But then photos started surfacing. Women grinning, holding up my shorts like souvenirs, as if they’d uncovered buried treasure.
Turns out, I wasn’t the victim of a pantie raid. I was the target of a franchise. Somehow, stealing Chainsaw’s skivvies had become a cultural rite. They called it “heritage.” I called it laundry theft.
People tried to reassure me: “It’s flattering, Chainsaw. You’ve become part of history!”
But history doesn’t buy you new underwear.
So now, whenever I fold a fresh pair, I half expect someone to rappel through the window with a GoPro, shouting, “Tradition!”