Scrote Notes, vol. 1
Let me just say this now:
I hate my balls.
Yeah, that's right.
I'm not ashamed. There's no insecurity here, boy. I'm not your middle-aged insurance executive going tribal. I bang no drum and weep for no inner-child.
I'm not afraid of my manhood. I just fucking hate it.
Why? Here. Give me just one day where I'm not constantly shifting under my desk, taking wide strides and pocket-poking, doing anything, going to any length to keep my sweaty pouch from sticking to my inner thighs and I'll be a more contented man. I'm tired of goose-stepping down the boulevard. The way on a warm day your sac drips into the crevice of your leg. The way your little hairs get caught in flaps. Have you ever been comfortable? Guys? Your balls are obstructionists.
Your balls don't need to be there. And they leave us exposed. Our monarchs have no army. William and Mary are sitting in an empty court, and the castle walls are made of tissue. Would the Queen carry the crown jewels in a Tesco bag on the tube? Hardly. But you, sire, you carry yours inside your Wranglers. You sit on them. You let your bay city rollers wag like puppies over every wingtip and trainer. You're practically taunting people!
God, I feel so exposed. And God's to blame, of course. For all of this. Did He think about this at all- did he even make a sketch before He flipped the switch to start churning us out? Think about it: God gave Us the cradle of civilization. He dropped it in an intricate incubator, wired it so it's always warm and toasty. But does He put it in our throat? Our sternum? Our cavernous bellies? Nah. They're external. Our little victims, they hang low, dangling in striking distance, easily strikeable. What was He thinking? He may have made us in His image, but all His assholes are dressing up in Usher's. And J.Lo's. Didn't figure on that one, did ya G-man. Timberlands. Prada heels. Not quite the ol' tap with the sandals, is it?
Listen, G. You got great ideas, just shitty planning. When you took over from the Greek contingent, I understand you were a little pissed off. All those names and myths piss me off, too. But Jesus Christ, Man, have some compassion. You took Achilles heel and put it on our crotch! What an outrage. At least it took a bit of dexterity to take a swipe at Achilles. At least there was some guesswork. Any palsied, pretzel hand these days knows exactly where to aim. What an indignity.
Think of 10-pin bowling when they put the bumpers in the gutters so the kids are guaranteed to hit some pins. That's how I think of my balls.
I hate my balls.
I hate walking around with these scarlet letters in my jeans. And like Hester Prynne, they're clingy. I always know they're there. And so do you.
Just think about my words. Think about your balls. Discover your shame, and you'll find that they're pointless. It's O-K to hate your balls.
I hate mine.
Next time we'll discuss male skirts and the genius of the Scottish.