So it’s Chicago, you’re biologically male, and you’re wearing multiple layers, including pants, thermal underlayers and regular underwear, and you also have to pee, so you get to the bowl, and rather than fully disrobe, you decide, against the wisdom of the ages, to hoist down the various layers to provide full run for the boys. You mean business.
Your full core body strength is engaged as you yank down not just your pants, but your underwear and your thermal leggings. This creates the kind of torsion strain found only in the ropes of climbers dangling off precipices.
You begin to pee.
Suddenly, without warning, by some physiological misstep, by some godawful failure of your metacarpal musculature, the thumb comes loose.
The combined kinetic energy of your elasticated Target long-johns and the Haines-brand underwear whips up and strikes your genitalia square on.
It is by the grace of God that you’ve finished peeing. You don’t have to suffer the ignominy of scattered aerosolized urine – but you do however have to suffer the stomach cramping, groin crippling agony as energy of the combined underwear impacts your junk and sends you reeling, first gasping, then crying to the floor, into a posture that your body hasn’t seen since birth.
This kind of pain is reserved for heartbreak, food poisoning after seafood, and kicks to the testicles from exuberant and disrespectful pub patrons with whom you’ve just had a trying discussion regarding the substantial differences between alpacas and llamas.
In conclusion, don’t ever trust your thumb to hold the combined elements in place.
This is why you take your pants off when you pee. No matter how long it takes.