The Ninja Slipper

There are topics of conversation that should never be discussed or examined or talked about amongst friends. These things are lurid and heinous and shameful. Toxic and devilish. Embarrassment would haunt us like spectors should these things ever be overheard by bosses, priests or local librarians.
Our families would turn their backs on us.

...Yet something compells us to these inglorious topics. There is something that drives us to whisper about them in our school hallways and cubicle dividers.
And at the exact moment we wish we had kept it to ourselves, it wafts out of our collective mouths, parading itself in front of everyone to hear.

Cameltoe.

As defined by Wikipedia, "Cameltoe is a slang term that refers to the outline of a woman's vulva when seen through tight, form-fitting clothes."
It is the reason Daisy Duke was an iconic heroine, why Marilyn Monroe wore two pairs of panties for the subway grate scene in 'The Seven Year Itch', and why I have decided to abandon all sense of normal decorum.
Unfortunately for my perverted constituents, this blog is not about female cameltoe, but male cameltoe, which has dared not been defined by Wikipedia or any other on-line resource. Male cameltoe - like seeing ghosts of dead relatives - is something that if happened upon, should nevertheless remain secret.
Tonight, I break the silence.

We live in a crippled world where everyone has seen this horrendous phenomenon and says nary a word about it. Men are buying pants that are too tight at the inseam and then sitting with legs splayed outward for the rest of humanity to see.
Our ramshackle society no longer believes in tailors or seamstresses and the result has long been poorly fitting knickerbockers.
Men's testicles are having a Civil War and the inseam is the Mason-Dixon.
I rarely buy my own clothing anymore. I find the task tedious and I've hired a pageboy to do the bulk of my shopping for me. He buys my powdered wigs, my feathered caps, my ruffleed shirts, but the lone item I disallow anyone to purchase for me are my pants.
The pants are my responsibility. I stand a statuesque 6'3" and 5'9" of that are my legs.
I'm leggy.
And because I am leggy, I am faced with the same pantaloon dilemma time and time again: do I allow my pants to fall rebelliously below my butt crack or do I wear ankle-flooding high pants that inevitably present my "Thunderpaw" to anyone sitting in front of me?
Because I am a man of the people, I choose to display my boxer shorts before I display my "VW Beetle Hood".
I call upon the rest of you to do the same.
I bring this up in the name of outrage. We are - none of us - innocent in this battle of the bulge.
A professor of mine insists on wearing form-fiting chinos. Originally, I thought nothing of this fashion decision until he lifted his leg and rested it upon a chair causing each of his testicles to part ways due to heavy constriction.
My professor's inseam is Moses and his package is the Red Sea.
My professor's testicles are Lucille Ball and Ricky Ricardo and his tight inseam is the episode where the two of them get into a fight and split their bedroom in half with duct tape.

I chose to sit at the front of the class on day one and I'm too stubborn to switch horses mid-race now, but my friends, I promise you, had I to do it over again, I would not choose to be eye-and-eye with his "Ninja Slipper".
His "Vertical Smile."
His "Moose Knuckle".
His "Fosolo."
His "Mandelbrot Muffin."
I write to you now because something must be done. We cannot live in a society this maddening, this unaware of itself. We must all be like Howard Beale in the 1976 film 'Network'. We must all get out of our chairs, and race to our windows. We must all clatter and shout and shatter the silence. Shout to stop professors and fat guys and Frenchmen from chaffing themselves so publicly.
It is time, my dear friends, to take a stand. It is time to say we are mad as hell and we're not gonna take it anymore.
The time to act is now.
Loosen the inseams and sit comfortably in a world of adjoined testicles. Please.

My grade depends on it.