Festive underneath

I talked to M this morning.  He and Zoe chatted about how excited she was today because (warning: double whammy ahead) it was Pajama Day and Babaloo Day.  Pajama Day is, well, pretty self-explanatory.  Babaloo is an entertainer who comes in once a year for an all-school assembly.  He farts and throws toilet paper all around and blows bubbles and does other things that preschoolers find incredibly hilarious.

Then, I dropped the bomb on him.  Poor boy, he's around the world and even in a different hemisphere, no less.  In other words, he's powerless to stop her.  I told him, "She requested, and is wearing, her party underwear.  Chosen especially for today."

First, there was silence.

Then..."What?"

Later, he told me he was tempted to ask two questions:

1. What, exactly, is "party underwear?"
2. Who do you expect to actually, um, see your party underwear?

Then he muttered, "I'm not gonna make it. Not gonna make it.  I'm gonna need to be tranquilized."

Is it wrong that I find his pain so funny?  I mean, it's fart/toilet paper cannon/bubbles funny.