Since the protectors of our public safety aren't willing to do it, I'm going to abuse this space to put out an all-points bulletin on my underwear.

To say that officers who responded to my recent case of stolen laundry were less than sympathetic is an understatement on the scale of "HECO's response to last month's earthquake was somewhat vexing." Unless, that is, you consider rolled eyes and mucho condescending attitude a sign of deep concern. In that case, two of those three fine officers were just fab. But I digress.

My real concern is that some depraved fugitive is out there running around in my $4.99 Wal-Mart boxers, my paint-spattered boardshorts and my overpriced Tool concert T-shirt (which, by the way, I think stupid lip-syncing Maynard James Keenan should reimburse me for, dangit!).

Have you seen me? Who in their right mind would want to walk a mile in my threadbare Gold Toes? I shudder to think.

From what I understand from my neighbors, the dude — trust me, it's a dude — has been busy recently with at least five other laundry thefts in the past few months. My underwear mixed up with other guys' underwear? I'm crawling out of my skin!

One neighbor is convinced that our BVD Bandit is selling our stuff at the swap meet, but this seems far-fetched. Now, my neighbors dress more or less like me. Stealing to look like us is nuts; paying money for our used clothes is, like, "Flavor of Love" crazy.

A part of me (the part that doesn't want to snip the eyelids off this pilfering punk) wants to believe that some good might come of this. Maybe this dryer-diving, laundry lifter is some kind of Robin Hood, stealing from the fashion-impaired to give to the, what, blind?

I suppose what bothers me most is the sense of violation that naturally comes with a stranger taking something that's yours. And there is nothing more mine than my unraveling 19-year-old Boston Celtics gym shorts.

It's not the first time I've had stuff stolen from me. When I was living in Mo'ili'ili, a guy broke into my apartment when I was napping and snatched my watch and wallet. A few years ago, while a friend and I were running around Tantalus, someone turned my home-away-from-home truck into an empty cab with a whole lot of untraceable fingerprints. And let's not even talk about the company fridge.

But none of those invasions left me feeling as violated as this latest incident. That someone else's body is occupying the same highly personal space that mine once did is ... is ... is there a better word than icky?

I know all this is insignificant in the long run, and perhaps one day the perpetrator will choke on the great lint ball of his own bad karma, but if you happen to see a suspicious person in a Clorox-spotted Mets shirt, jeans with a missing pocket and mismatched socks, do give me buzz.

Reach Michael Tsai at mtsai@honoluluadvertiser.com.