Happy Movember, everybody! I don’t know a whole lot about this annual celebration, but my understanding of Movember is that during the month of November with an N, dudes are allowed to be lazy ass mofos and refrain from shaving in order to bring awareness to men’s health issues, specifically testicular and prostate cancer. I’m not exactly sure how all of the men folk looking like hipsters or homeless people or jihadists actually helps, but it certainly is having a moment.
Switching gears for a second — and you’ll see how this all ties together in a minute — the other day, I received a message on Twitter from a reader saying, “You write about dicks a lot.”
A lot? I thought. That can’t be. So I did the scary, scary math, and according to my computations, only a total of four percent of my posts expressly concern phalluses. I wouldn’t call that a lot. However, it so happens that my top three most viewed posts are penis-related. So that’s on you guys. In sum, the cold, hard truth of the matter is: YOU ARE ALL OBSESSED WITH DICKS.
But today, in honor of Movember (toldja I’d get there), I’m here to pay homage to the grossly underappreciated backup performers that stand faithfully behind every man’s member – that’s right, the Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams of the genital world — the balls. While the penis receives all the fanfare, the balls are woefully overshadowed.
(Yes, I just likened Beyonce to a penis. COME AT ME.)
I have to confess, I myself have never really given a rat’s ass about a man’s nads. While I can more or less recall the meatstick of most every guy I’ve been with, I would be hard pressed to recount an accurate description of their testes. As in, if their balls held up a 7-11 or something, I would be unable to identify them in a police lineup. So if every woman was like me in this respect, one could deduce that balls could quite literally get away with murder.
Chicks Don’t Understand Balls
Some men complain that women don’t pay enough attention to their balls. What the fuck does this even mean? Should we compliment them and cook them their favorite meal once in a while? I mean, I knew balls were sensitive, but I thought this was more in a physical rather than emotional sense.
I’ve had guys ask me to play with their balls and it always renders me in a panicked and confused state because I haven’t the foggiest goddamned idea what it is they mean by “play.”
Something like this?
Am I doing it right?
In all honesty I’m terrified to handle them at all, because if I’ve learned anything from America’s Funniest Home Videos, it’s that balls are the most fragile part of any man (aside from his ego). I am straight up petrified that if I rub them the wrong way they might explode or something and that would be awful and also I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t be getting any vitamin D for the rest of the evening and goddammit I started talking about dicks again.
And don’t even get me started on teabagging. Gentlemen, please know that, even when freshly showered and shaven, TEABAGGING IS THE WORST. Imagine a robin’s egg wrapped loosely within a voluminous fabric of uncooked chicken skin and being asked to stuff the entire concoction into your mouth – which in and of itself is disturbing as all get out – then being cautioned that, whatever you do, don’t harm the egg! Sweetums, I will go to motherfucking town on your ding dong, but please oh please don’t ask me to swallow your scrotum.
Nature Messed Up
As I contemplate the balls, I wonder, why did God or nature or whoever put them on the outside? It would seem that organs so precious would be housed on the inside, like ovaries, not hanging out externally all vulnerable to the elements and flying objects and bicycle seats. But instead they dangle carefree in a heart-shaped pouch of paper-thin skin, almost asking to be smashed.
Perhaps they’re there to keep the penis warm. Or maybe nature put them on the outside strictly for us women. We all know men are superior in physical strength, but the balls are our one trump card we can use to level a guy if he gets out of line. So I would say “Thanks for looking out for us, nature!” Except: see teabagging.
Saving the Best Balls for Last
And now, my friends, I give you the pièce de résistance in our little ode to balls. Allow me to present to you:
Or Senhor Testiculo, if you reside in his native Brazil. Mr. Balls is just your friendly mascot that goes around town reminding men to check themselves for testicular cancer. Clearly, Mr. Balls is celebrating Movember as well, because judging by the curlies on his chinny chin chin, he obviously has not shaved in some time.
Kids love Mr. Balls. See?
And for those of you pissed off about my distaste of teabagging, let me ask you: would you put this thing in your mouth?
Nevertheless, however unsavory a character Mr. Balls may appear to be, I am grateful for him. Because although I may never be the great testicular tickler my man might like me to be, his junk just wouldn’t be the same without the little fellers.
So guys, the moral of the story, in honor of Movember and every damn month, is: CHECK YO BALLS. Or Senhor Testiculo will haunt you in your dreams.
Categories: In My Most Excellent Opinion