Damien Galeone

8:02 a.m.: Upon checking my phone first thing in the morning to ensure that everyone I know is still alive, I see that I received a call from family at 00:24 a.m. This leads me to a panicked state and so, after turning on my coffee, feeding my cat, singing Octopus’s Garden, I turn on my computer to find the problem.

8:09 a.m.: The ‘problem’ is realized. I look playful in the photos, smiling, pointing at centuries-old monuments, gracing a 600-year-old bridge with my presence. My pants are around my ankles in every photo. They are on Facebook. I scan them in a ‘please don’t let this get out of hand’ panic over my morning coffee.

8:11 a.m.: Relief overtakes me. Boxer flap has done its job (despite overwhelming…oh forget it), and I am not documented breaking any serious laws. Thus, I still have a job, a visa, and my future as a senator is still a theoretical possibility. Also, happy about state of cuteness embodied by my tushy.

8:12 a.m.: I bend into the most awkward position in circus contortionist history to judge whether one picture betrays my, um, modesty.

8:13 a.m.: A sneeze while bent in this position dislocates my spinal column.

8:16 a.m.: As is often the case, a grander question is brought forth from a bout of shower singing (Song: Suicide is Painless, Accent: French-Cajun, Audience: Bela and neighbor who bangs on wall whilst weeping).

8:17 a.m.: The question: Why, in the name of Brett Favre, did I decide to take pictures of myself in front of historical monuments with no pants on?

8:18 a.m.: I heap blame upon my brother until I remember that the decision was mine fully. I damn myself. Eat cereal as I try to somehow blame alcohol, Český Krumlov and my high school chemistry teacher.

I don’t know why I did this, but I do know that I am not alone in making monumentally bad decisions involving (somewhat) indecent exposure when a few drinks have worked into themselves into the gullet. Whether it’s a famous football player texting pictures of his man-taco to a teenager, every party I ever attended while working at a pub, or the drunken ladies on the Girls Gone Wild videos, well at least in volumes I, II, XIII, IV, V, XXIV (Coed Sex Tryouts), and VII (Horny Schoolgirls). Hypothetically.

Granted, walking around a small Bohemian town and snapping photos of ourselves in boxers is the Walt Disney version of photographic evidence of indecent exposure. Still, it’s in the same arena as Girls Gone Wild and I guess what it all boils down to is the age-old reasoning:

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

8:31a.m.: I blame cameras.

I suppose it was only a matter of time for me. I was fortunate to have gone to university at a time when every single person around was not carrying a ready-to-use camera. Playing rugby in university basically demanded that one find that inner exhibitionist and take it out when they have had more than four drinks. Celebrating your first try scored meant becoming a Zulu Warrior, which involved stripping to your birthday suit, getting covered in (freezing cold) beer, and running around something. Mine was in October. It was cold. Nobody was impressed.

Rugby was parlayed by working at a university pub which actually had ‘Naked Monday.’ Somewhere in a Pittsburgh post office there is an artist’s rendition of my willy and a bond for $5.28.

8:59 a.m.: I physically shiver wondering what could have been and thank Brett Favre that, to my knowledge, these snaps from Krumlov are the only time these tendencies have been caught in black and white. Oh well, at least it’s permanent.

9:31 a.m.: At my office, I receive an email from my brother with the ‘Top Secret’ stash from our Krumlov escapades. These include a removal of the boxers and the pre-skinny dipping strip down.

9:34 a.m.: D’oh!