DO you appreciate your underwear? I do. I went without any for a few days.

It may be fashionable for Larry Johnson and some of his Knicks teammates to go commando, but having tried it myself as an experiment, I have to ask: “Why?”

There’s no warmth, softness or support. Disturbing little breezes kick up and swirl. Stuff in your pockets like keys and your wallet suddenly make themselves known. You worry about hygiene, not to mention the horrific prospect of a zipper accident like the one Ben Stiller endured in “There’s Something About Mary.” (“We got a bleeder!”)

Also, booting the briefs nullified my one fashion tip. Ever see a guy’s dress shirt billow out in front of him like he’s got a beer gut, even though he doesn’t? Here’s how I deal: I tuck my undershirt into my underwear. For some reason, that makes the dress shirt stay flat and sharp looking.

After three days of going regimental, I found that the most troubling aspect of the experience was, well, constantly being aware of what’s down there.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Men’s thoughts generally don’t stray too far from their nether regions, but do I have to be reminded of them every time I get up and walk to the mailroom?

I suppose after some time this would stop bothering me. I didn’t wait long enough to find out. My conclusion: There’s no good reason to skip the skivvies. It never made me feel cool or sexy, only self-conscious.

If God didn’t want us to wear underwear, he wouldn’t have invented jockeys.