For the next few minutes we are going to discuss something that's very important, something your momma tried to stress to you from the time you were old enough to walk, something you need to keep in the forefront of your mind as you go forth in this complex and uncertain world we live in, something that just could some day make or break all your dreams, aspirations and ambitions. I am speaking here of, that's right — the condition of your underwear.

When I was a little boy, my mother's worst fear wasn't that the Russians would launch a barrage of nuclear missiles at us. She wasn't concerned all that much with the daily air raid drills we had at school, or the occasional talk of the Cold War (by the way, I always thought that was something doctors were doing, you know, research to find a cure for the common cold). Momma wasn't too awful concerned with paying the bills, or putting food on the table or keeping a whole houseful of kids dressed and fed and healthy. She always managed to do that but it was never really her biggest worry. No sir. Her biggest worry was that one of us would be involved in an accident and get caught wearing old ratty, or even — heaven forbid — unlaundered underwear.

I can recall on more than one occasion when mom would just plain outright ask us about the condition of our underwear.

"Did you put on clean underwear after you took your bath?" she would ask. "Because it would embarrass me to death if you got in an accident and they had to take you to the hospital and found you wearing dirty underwear."

What embarrassed ME was that she would ask that question.

That always puzzled me. It seemed like momma was more concerned about our underwear surviving a tragic accident than us surviving the tragic accident.

If she had her way, there would have been an emergency room underwear technician on call at the hospital.

EMERGENCY ROOM DOCTOR AS PARAMEDICS WHEELED DOWN THE HALL A KID WHO JUST HIT BY A BUS: "Looks like this child has a skull fracture, a broken arm, multiple contusions and abrasions and maybe a ruptured spleen and — OH MY GOODNESS, GET A LOAD OF THAT UNDERWEAR, THOSE THINGS HAVE A HUGE RIP IN THE SEAT AND THAT WAISTBAND IS HANGING BY A THREAD, GET THE NEEDLE AND THREAD GUY IN HERE STAT!!!

I could always imagine the doctor calling my mom to tell her I had been in an accident.

"Mrs. Jordan, I'm afraid your son's been hurt." "He's not ... he's not ... not ...." "No ma'am. He's alive but he's banged up pretty bad." "What about his underwear?" Lengthy pause. Lengthy pause.

"Well, I'm afraid they didn't make it, ma'am."

"NO! NO! WHY, OH WHY? THEY WERE SO YOUNG!"

Mom passes out — thud! — stone cold unconscious right there in front of Days of Our Lives on the TV.

Speaking of underwear, the other day my wife comes in from the Wal-Mart and informs me she bought me a new 5-pack of underwear.

I told her that was unnecessary because I still had three pair in the new pack she bought me back in '94. (Just kidding.)

The next morning I got out of the shower and opened up that new pack and unfolded one of those bad boys.

IT WAS HUGE!

It was like, I don't know, special emergency fat guy underwear. I looked at the brand name on the label and it said "Shamu Of The Loom." Those things blocked out the sun. I don't know if she was trying to tell me something or if she just made a mistake in the size.

Whatever the case, I'm pretty sure there's an ordinance against one guy owning that much cotton.

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.