Why I can't be a nudist

I write for a humor blog with two friends, James Malins and Cherie Michiko, called Misusing Big Words. This post was originally published here:
I could never live in a nudist colony.

It's not the nudity part that I couldn't handle, although there are plenty of things to worry about with that, such as ugly people and inappropriately-timed erections. No, the thing I wouldn't be able to handle is the lack of pockets.

No matter if I'm going out or I'm home alone, I'm almost always at least wearing shorts, and most of the time they're cargo shorts with lots of pockets. And I use them all, boy do I ever. At any given time on any given day, if one were to ask me to empty my pockets, one would be confronted with a barrage of knick knacks that would turn the most dedicated packrat green with envy.

Besides the normal cell phone and wallet, I also typically have two or three business cards, six or seven receipts from the last places I went to dinner or the grocery store, a ballpoint pen (sometimes even two), a whole litter of keys on several different keyrings accompanied by four or five plastic Gold Club eXtreme Rewards Preferred Member cards they give you at supermarkets and video stores, ticket stubs for the last sporting event/movie/theater performance I attended, and several sheets of 8.5 x 11 paper folded twice over to be pocket-sized and containing information about either schedules, phone numbers of people I need to call, or musings I had written about why I could never be a nudist.

A wise man once said pockets are the greatest invention in the world, and although I wouldn't entirely agree—everyone knows the high five is the greatest invention of all time—pockets do slide in at a very close second place.
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