There comes a time in every boy’s life when he looks in a mirror and realizes it’s time to move from tighty whitey underwear to boxers. The first day wearing boxers is an epiphany. His testicles sway in a way that reminds a casual observer of footage of releasing an animal into the wild after a lifetime in a cage.
And then, a few decades later, he is forced to go back to tighty whiteys. His testicles herded back into the cottony confines like footage of two animals released into the wild after a lifetime in a cage if played in reverse. Two animals that are damn glad to be there.
In case you haven’t caught on, I am that man and I simply got sick of sitting on my own balls. Every day I was wracking myself because my testicles hung so low that if I didn’t remember to lift them out of the way the simple act of having a seat led to squishing my nuts flat. Boxers aided and abetted this squishing and frankly the fashion consequences of switching back to TWs seemed like no big deal compared to the constant ache of swollen balls.
Now what I need to invent is some sort of apparatus that stops my balls from touching the water when I am on the toilet. I’m not sure what this apparatus would look like but there is nothing worse than sitting there and suddenly feeling a ball touch the water … especially after the business at hand has been completed. If there was a camera in the bowl it would be suspenseful as the sack slowly relaxes and the ball begins to descend towards the foul liquid below like a secret agent being lowered to his doom by some demented villain. The trouble is, I am sitting there completely unaware of this little drama until it is too late. One minute I’m sitting there reading something and the next I’m leaping up and trying to dry off my sack as my nuts swing wildly around like two bees in a bonnet.
When you watch TV you are constantly assaulted with every manner of uncomfortable advertisement, from condoms to feminine hygiene products, but I’ve never seen anyone talk about the problems associated with the male sack getting droopy as he ages. Are we to believe that every man is supposed to silently migrate back to tighty whiteys without raising a fuss?
Perhaps this will become my cause. I’ve been looking for a noble pursuit to be the beneficiary of my ever-increasing star-power and influence. Of course, if my devoted readers ever got wind that I have saggy balls I might endanger that very rock-star status.
Forget I mentioned it.