(Otherwise titled: "Alas, Testicleese, you must repent! Your end is in sight!")
There comes a time in most mens' lives -- after sober, judicious contemplation and self-reflection -- that they start wearing baggy shorts-style bathing suits over the ball-hugging, obscenity-charge-walking Speedo.
I say most, because I have a family member who will not back away from the spandex. Despite cajoling, pointed commentary, ridicule and outright pleas for our sanity, he clings to his banana hammock. Worse, it's a grape-smuggler that is at least thirty years old -- thus it is worn to sheer material in places you don't want to think about. We're talking pineapple basket here!
I may have to gouge out my own eyes. The good news is it's working wonders for my diet, as I can't eat anything resembling a cucumber, pickle, summer squash or bratwurst. The idea of gherkins or apricots makes me retch. The sight of chicken or turkey skin makes my skin crawl.
You get the idea.
Seriously -- if the entire watching world can tell if you're a turtle-neck or a crew-neck kind of guy, it's time to wear Jams or board shorts.