Marge, you being the cop makes you The Man…which makes me the woman. I have no interest in that, besides occasionally wearing your underwear, which, as we discussed, is strictly a comfort thing.

Homer Simpson

Ah, yes…underwear. AKA skivvies, BVDs, gotchies, drawers, frillies, woollies, scanties, briefs, step-ins and unmentionables. Homer Simpson isn’t the only soul whose knickers can tie him up in knots. Consider the tragic-comic plight of Joseph Espinoza and Joaquin Rico.

Not exactly overachievers, Messrs Espinoza and Rico Their primary mission that Saturday evening was to hold up a Denver convenience store and avail themselves of whatever was in the cash register. Being, as the phrase goes, ‘known to police,’ the duo wisely reasoned that disguises might be in order. “Aha” light-bulbed Joaquin. “How about we put underwear over our heads?”

Not as stupid as it sounds, actually. Many a hold-up artist has successfully distorted his facial features by wearing a nylon stocking or even pantihose over his head during the commission of his crime. Alas, our bandidos had neither, so they improvised.

They hit the store, intimidated the staff and got away with about $100 cash and 37 packs of cigarettes. But it wasn’t long before they were identified and arrested. Their disguises hadn’t been that successful. They’d robbed the store wearing underwear on their heads alright—Joaquin wore green; Joseph opted for blue. Unfortunately the desired masquerade effect was not forthcoming. The boys had chosen to wear—thong panties over their heads.

Poor Joaquin and Joseph—victims of their cultural times. If they’d been pulling heists in just about any other age, underwear disguises wouldn’t have been an option. Cleopatra didn’t wear panties. Cicero, pontificating splendidly in the Roman Senate, had nothing on beneath his toga. Genghis Khan, marauding across the Asian Steppes rode bareback in the strictest sense of the word.

Humans didn’t get serious about underthingies until the late 19th century, when a sadistic quack by the name of Dr. Gustav Jaeger came along advocating the health benefits of wearing coarse, undyed wool next to the skin. This was in Britain of course. Where else could the idea of wearing something hot and scratchy over your delicate bits be considered virtuous? For the next few decades, delusional Europeans and North Americans prided themselves on wearing undergarments that could hardly have been more uncomfortable.

And nowadays? Well, unlike Homer, I can’t speak knowledgeably about women’s undergarments but as far as male attire goes, things aren’t that bad. It pretty much comes down to a simple fashion choice of boxers or briefs. Wool, thank the gods, is out, and comfort is in. Underwear is as it should be—simple.

Which means of course that somebody had to figure out a way to make it complicated. That somebody seems to be Brazilian designer Lucia Lorio. She’s marketing a feminine undergarment that contains a GPS chip enabling the wearer to be tracked by satellite. Why would anyone want such a thing? Why, for protection from terrorists and other assorted kidnappers. Feminist response has been decidedly cool. They want the device recognized for what they see it as: a virtual chastity belt allowing insecure males to keep track of their wives and/or sweethearts. Designer Lorio counters that the wearer has an on/off switch she can flip anytime she likes.

Which reminds me of the old chestnut about the English duke, off to fight in the Crusades who made sure his Lady was securely encased in an iron chastity belt before he embarked. He locked the belt himself and secured the key on a gold chain around his neck. But the duke wasn’t heartless. Realizing that he might end up dangling on the scimitar of a Saracen he entrusted a duplicate key to his loyal butler.

After his first day’s journey the duke made camp at Dover in preparation for sailing to France in the morning. He was just about to turn in when he heard a galloping horse approaching. Moments later, his butler flung himself off the horse, red-faced and panting.

“My apologies, your Lordship,” gasped the butler, “but you left the wrong key.”