|Photo of my balls courtesy of Photodictionary.com|
Please note: *these are not my real balls. Mine are spectacular.
Oh my God, I've got balls. I don't know exactly how it happened, but damn if I don't have balls. TWO of them!! NOW I get what all the fuss is about. I can't juggle them, I can't swat them with a club, a bat or a racquet, but I can touch them. As a matter of fact, I'm touching them right now! You know why? BECAUSE I CAN.
Along with the balls comes the penis. Yup, got one of those as well. It's not too big and it's not too small. It's just right, and it's mine. I can get out of bed and start walking towards the bathroom, pull my underwear down, step out of them and leave them lying right there on the floor. Why? Because I've got balls, and that's what we men who have balls do. Naturally, I go in and pee standing up, because that's what we men with balls do too. I check my hairy face in the mirror and think, damn, I'd make an ugly chick but boy, these balls and this facial hair really make me look hot. Girls dig facial hair. So I say screw shaving. This is my day, and nothing was mentioned in the rules that it has to be MY actual life, so for this one day in the life, I'm a dude, with junk, and I'm on my own.
So I'm heading downstairs where my dogs are and they greet me with tails wagging and drool flying. After letting them out, making myself some coffee and letting them back in, I'm going to feed them. Just me and my boys. My boys are fixed, and at this moment in time, I've got more junk than they do. I am the manliest man in all the land! Or at least in my house. They happily chow down on their Dog Chow while I make a manly omelet. Men love omelets and mine has all the meat I could find in the fridge. Ham. Okay maybe it's not the manliest omelet on the planet but it's mine.
|A manly omelet. Not mine, but it could be. |
Photo courtesy of Reimen publishing.
No, what I'm doing is watching football all day. Just me, my boys, my balls and my TV remote. We sit on the couch, them eating Milk Bones and me drinking beer with one hand and fondling my junk in the other. I just want to make sure they're still there. My phone rings around 3:00 in the afternoon and it's a chick. Apparently I was supposed to call her back after I had a date with her. I didn't. I'm a guy, it's a guy thing. I'm just not that into her, but she offers to bring over a pizza so I say sure. Knock yourself out, Susan, er, Sarah, er sorry, Sally. Whatever. Just bring the pizza.
An hour later, the doorbell rings and rouses me from a nap. The dogs look lazily at me from their Milk Bone-induced comas and since they're not making a move to answer the door, it's up to me. I grab a pair of shorts from the living room floor, because that's where I keep my shorts. I do a quick sniff test, find them passable and put them on to answer the door. I'm a dude but I'm not a caveman, give me some credit. I open the door and there is Sus...Sara...Sal... there she is with pizza in one hand and a six pack in the other. Why didn't I like this chick?
|Photo of Sus..Sar...Sal...hot chick with pizza and beer courtesy of Thatsthespirit.com|
Once all the football games are over, my dogs are sleepy and I've got a tired buzz going on. I take off my shorts and leave them, naturally, on the living room floor. I schlepp up the stairs to my bedroom, pee standing up one last time and head to bed. As I drift off to sleep, you know exactly where my hand is. Who knows if I will wake up in the morning with junk, so I need to enjoy it while I've got it.