Kenny Herzog has dessicated his body to Asylum science.

Earlier this summer, I had the unique opportunity to test out something called the Wondershirt, courtesy of an Australian men's clothing manufacturer called Equmen, which is attempting to capitalize on the emerging middle market between crotch-grabbing everymen and metrosexualized alpha-males.

In a nutshell, the Wondershirt is a form-fitting, largely polyester undergarment that made me feel like I was vacuum sealed inside a package of string cheese -- which is to say, sexy like a kitten. So the next logical stop was to investigate how Equmen's expanded line of total-body undies could approximate the sensation of fastening my nuts in a shell ... of soft, stretchy, temperature-controlled fabric.

The "Power Pouch"
For the past several days, I have been testing out a few pairs of the company's Precision Underwear, which have allegedly been designed by made-up doctors known as physiotherapists, and feature a sci-fi advent called Helix-Mapping compression that "places pressure on the gluteal fold, providing lightweight posture and gait support." Translation: It conforms to your ass like wet cement. Or as my girlfriend Colleen put it between insensitive snickers -- "It's basically a sports bra for your junk."

And speaking of the ol' petrified stick and poisonberries, it was comforting to know that my private dancers were well-protected within a "power pouch," which apparently is climate-moderated to keep me "healthy and comfortable." Or in other words, ensure that, unlike with traditional boxers or briefs, my undercarriage doesn't accumulate the moisture levels of a sub-equatorial South American jungle. Ideally, the Precision Underwear (or PU, as I like to hilariously pronounce it to myself) is intended for a shapely, athletically inclined individual, not a pasty Hebraic pansy like myself who could easily be mistaken for an underdeveloped teenage girl from the bosom down.

A Crowdpleaser, Too
But against all odds -- and despite my unmentionables being less than evenly aligned -- my unveiling of the long blue trunks (while sashaying across the living room to optimal montage music, of course) elicited awe-struck approval from Colleen, who likened the Superman-azure trunks to erotically charged bicycle shorts. Like adjusting to an oral retainer, the clinging nylons and polyesters were initially alien and less-than-welcome against my bottom (and far from better) half. Eventually though, the pragmatically sensual boxers became a second skin, like a condom for my inner thighs. And during an afternoon gallop on the treadmill, they were particularly well-suited to enhancing my posture and keeping all my unseemly business in an organized state. It was as if someone hired a carefully crafted underwear nanny to monitor the behavior of my unruly set of testicular twins.

Skip the Skimp
Unfortunately, I had less success feeling empowered by, or at ease inside, the skimpier grey briefs, which are more aptly described as a cup-less jockstrap. Even Colleen felt humiliated on my behalf, like the high school bully had just undressed me in the middle of the hallway and revealed my privately homoerotic choice of underwear. At least it would be nearly impossible to maneuver a successful wedgie thanks to the resistance of the PU's material.

My suggestion to all you Fruit of the Loom loyalists and Joe Boxer enthusiasts? It actually could be worth your while to experiment with a pair of Equmen's lengthier boxers, if nothing else as a reward to your suffering girlfriend who's endlessly satisfied your demands for ill-fitting, Frederick's of Hollywood buttless panties. But at the end of the day, you'll probably still feel truer to yourself in a skid-marked pair of tighty-whiteys that could be mistaken for a greasy-spoon diner dishrag. PU indeed.