Seven questions for seven deviants

The queen of the blogging world, Terrye Toombs, posed seven of her most devilish questions and I was one of the victims. If anyone is interested to hear about knickerbockers flying over Castorbridge Wood in the remake of a Thomas Hardy classic - and much, much more - drop in via the following link:

http://asshatrants.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/seven-questions-for-seven-bloggers.html?showComment=1424727656215#c7547483708254824656

I'm sure you will not be disappointed.

Big-ball syndrome

Courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at
FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Recently, I read an interesting post, titled ‘things women with big boobs would like you to understand’, in which the author laments the boob sweat, straining blouse-buttons and the way that hugging someone much shorter than herself can mimic a scene from a soft-porn film. This got me thinking about what might represent the male equivalent of this anatomical curse. It came to me suddenly: big-ball syndrome, followed by the growing realization that I am one of the afflicted.

At 56 years old, my ballocks are enormous and, worse still, seem to be inflating with each passing day. So what are the disadvantages of owning a huge pair of gonads?

1. When I sit on the toilet my balls plunge into the water like depth-charges; if there are any enemy submarines stupid enough to be lurking in my lavatory bowl they do not stand a chance.
2. In comparison, they make my manhood appear even smaller than it is, like a shrivelled slug perched on a hideously obese torso.
3. At times my oversized bollocks are inclined to spill out the sides of my off-white Jockey briefs and fuse to my thighs. Walking any distance with these gonadal flaps can chaff terribly, particularly on a hot day.
4. If my jeans are too tight my gonads are prone to tunnel around the back, rendering them vulnerable to crushing when I sit down. (And ladies, if you think childbirth is painful you know nothing!)
5. On those carefree summer holidays when I don the speedos I appear to be cultivating a grotesque hernia; as I walk poolside, the kids scatter, traumatised by the monstrous, misshapen blob protruding from my gusset while their sympathetic parents vacate their sunbeds and encourage me to rest.
6. I suffered extreme embarrassment prior to my vasectomy, the pre-op shave representing a formidable challenge; imagine scraping a razor over two rutted, water-filled balloons and you’ll be getting close.

 

So let me hear no more grumblings from you big-bosomed women.