You may want to close your eyes.

RYAN: Everyone in the world needs a little support. Something to keep us up when we’re feeling down. Something to hold us close when we’re feeling lonely. That’s why each and every morning, I choose briefs. They’re the perfect way to start each day. And with a wide assortment of colors to choose from, I can always find a color to match my mood. If I’m feeling classy, I go black. Wild and crazy, I go green. Saucy, I go red. For those days when I’m feeling just blah, I go with whichever white has the least amount of stains. But I always choose briefs. They’re a magical piece of clothing that gives us men one less thing to worry about during the day. Before briefs, man bounced around every which way like a damned animal. Sorry, but that kind of stuff doesn’t fly anymore. Much like we wear shoes to ease the strain on our feet, we wear briefs to ease the strain on our balls.

SHAWN: The good news about men who love briefs is they won’t be able to create children who share their brief-loving ways. Why? Because their tight-ass underwear has all but left them sterile, with low-to-no sperm counts and an inability to procreate. Me? I like to let my junk hang free and easy, the way God intended it. That’s why I go commando. Like the great commandos of World War I, no underwear allows my genitals the ability to breathe and live. They can swing low, swing high, bounce around—and, most importantly, the ladies can see the bulge dangling right through my pants and be all, “Mmm hmm!” Man, it feels good. No restrictions, and a higher sperm count than most sperm banks. That’s the life. Plus, I’m not wasting time choosing colors, especially since, if you’re the kind of guy that wears briefs, there’s a good chance no woman’s going to be seeing them anyway. I, on the other hand, am ready at a moment’s notice for whatever challenge I need to mount.

Looks like we found ourselves a ladies' man.

RYAN: Even if briefs do lead to low sperm counts, I don’t see why that’s a big deal. Oh, no, I can’t procreate. I guess I’m stuck having as much sex as I want without having to worry about kids. Woe is me. Meanwhile, you’re stuck raising a bunch of hell-raising, bank account-draining kids because you went commando all the time. Apparently for all the wrong reasons on top of that. Going commando does not create a bulge. I don’t want to get into the inner workings of gravity, but when you go commando, everything just hangs down and disappears into the fabric of the pants (please tell me you’re wearing pants). If you really want to impress the ladies with a bulge, you need to fight gravity and cradle and lift things up. That’s where the briefs come in. Now your privates don’t disappear between your legs like a frightened turtle. They become a focal point that, with the helpful addition of a sock or two, will get the women all riled up. Also, if you’re concerned about the well being of your junk, then going commando is the worst possible decision. You’re leaving yourself exposed to all sorts of dangers. All it takes is one wrong move to turn the pencils, pens, and keys in your pockets into deadly weapons. And I sure hope you’ve got a button fly because the jagged teeth of a zipper are absolutely unforgiving. Or have you not seen There’s Something About Mary? But briefs—loyal, trustworthy briefs—not only lift things out of harm’s way, they also provide another layer of protection.

SHAWN: My favorite part is how you turned an argument for briefs into an argument pro-sterilization. Hopefully, we can just keep our species from reproducing at all, successfully ending the horrible human race that created everything from Glenn Beck to Heelys. Wait—we’re part of that race! Maybe we should get out of those briefs then. And just because I’m going commando doesn’t mean I’m necessarily having sex and not pulling out all over the damn place. I’m still a responsible, married adult, and my lack of underwear hasn’t produced any offspring for me yet. At least I have the option to procreate if I want, though. The only option you have is being laughed at in the locker room at the gym. Who wears briefs anymore, besides six-year-old boys with creepily overbearing mothers? And maybe you should read your argument again, as you just pointed out that you need to trick women into thinking you have more junk than you do with your briefs. Excuse me for not needing artificial support to make a bulge work. No one’s complained yet. What happens to you when the fake support comes off? “Oh, God, that’s it?” Plus, some of us don’t have turtles for genitals, and they don’t disappear between their fat thighs when they go commando—they sit comfortable in the crotch of their pants, swinging around enough to be free, but cradled enough to not get stabbed by all the sharp objects you apparently fill your pockets with. Maybe you should get a book bag. Or are you scared that you have so little control of your junk that you’d get it caught in the zipper of that too?

Free and easy, with a place for spare change.

RYAN: My favorite part is when you lacked any understanding of one of the most basic concepts in the world: gravity. Seriously. Do I have to explain this to you? I figured at some point in your life, you would have learned all this, but your unwavering belief that you can have a bulge while going commando says otherwise. I don’t care how much you want to lie about the size of your junk. The only way you’re getting a bulge while going commando is if you’re wearing pants that have an inseam four inches higher than it should be. And really, if that’s the case, then all your arguments about being comfortable and hanging free are complete lies. I don’t care what bad things you say about briefs, I’m way more comfortable with them. They’re supportive, but not smothering. Functional, yet flattering. People in the locker room may laugh at briefs, but I’d much rather have that than be the creepy guy in the locker room who drops his pants and has nothing on underneath. Do you go commando when you’re wearing gym shorts too? Every time you do some crunches, your genitalia plops down on the mat. Of course, that’s assuming you actually work out when you go to the gym and don’t just stare longingly at the women on the treadmill. More than likely, you don’t go commando when you’re at the gym. It’s just doesn’t work, right? It’s the same reason why you don’t go commando when you’re wearing itchy pants. Or overalls. Or shorts. Oh well. I guess not everything can be suitable for all occasions like briefs.

SHAWN: Do I need to be clearer? If your dick were bigger, you’d realize that going commando isn’t as dangerous as you think it is. Plus, you keep buying those 22-waist Wal-Mart pants with the oversized crotches that let everything dangle beyond belief, even the little guy you got hiding under there. We all know how gravity works here, but we’re not Baggin’ Saggin’ Barry with enough room for our junk to throw a block party down there. Maybe this is a matter for cut of pant, but the argument stands that God made our fine genitals to be uninhibited with the ability to dangle when they want to dangle, like the junk of the animals. As for briefs, let’s take this sentence by sentence: “Supportive not smothering”—tell that to the zero kids you will ever have. “Functional yet flattering”—tell that to every woman ever. And, as for the gym, maybe there’s a time and a place for some boxers or even boxer briefs, but regular old briefs are never worth wearing. Hell, if you wear briefs at the gym, I’d bet you’d get all kinds of sweat collected in there, which 9 out of 10 doctors will confirm causes rashes and odors. So, even in the unlikely case that you get to a girl’s bedroom and she doesn’t laugh you back out of her house with those briefs, the second they’re on the floor all she’ll have to look at is…hell, I won’t describe it. Just google “rash” and cry yourself to sleep. Look at that: briefs are actually suitable for no occasions at all. Interesting to see your whole argument in shambles. At least now it’ll match your love life and hideously scrunched tiny balls.

Next on Danger Queue: Kindness vs Generosity—The Politest Danger That Ever Queued