Wednesday, June 07, 2006
"Dear Manola 180,
zOMG! I was, like fooling around with this guy and stuff, 'cause I thought he was like teh guy, and we were like, gettin' our freak on and stuff, and like the thing is, he wanted to do the deed and stuff, but I didn't, 'cause he didn't want to wear a condom, so like -- zOMG -- he told me that if I didn't let him fuck me right he'd be hurtin' from blue balls.
zOMG! Teh guy was so hurtin' he left the bed and started playing his guitar and wailing like teh 16th century French troubadour, which like, I don't even know what that means, but he so like started playing the pity-my-poor-pecker card!
So like, what teh fuck is this blue balls shit, oh wise Manola? zOMG! Teh balls looked perfectly normal to me, you know, sort of like that shade of rigor-mortis grey a chicken leg has while defrosting on the countertop.
What should I do about teh guy? zOMG!
Ms. Sue Feel Ball"
First off -- before anyone gets off -- grasshopper, even though you have mastered the subordinate clause, how do you expect to grapple dick if you can't even understand TEH use of basic definitive articles in this extinct communication device once known as the English language?
Secondly -- and most importantly -- let me applaud you on your choice to protect your vagina from this manipulative excuse of a testicle.
According to Jane Austen, who is at this moment rolling in her grave, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a man thinks with his penis. But has anyone ever wondered -- as William Wordsworth intimated -- what the penis thinks of the man? What about the feelings of those fragile, dangling dumplings in between a man's legs?
I bet those testicles hid in shame, looking cautiously out of their dark, damp lair at their parasitic host: "Oh, there he goes again, acting just like our redolent neighbor, Mr. Asshole."
Thirdly, defrosting chicken on the countertop is not hygienic. If you can wade off germs in bed, why stop at the kitchen?
As you've had your doubts about handling raw meat and because this post would horrify the rabbi around the corner who just blessed my sirloin, let me offer you the following counsel:
NO MEANS NO. Always has, always does and always will. If a man doesn't respect your wishes, who cares about the dire anxiety and hue of his balls?
Now, without pointing a wanker, let's put on a pair of gutapercha rubbers and wade carefully through the mind of man. Do you remember that chemistry experiment in high school, when the hawkishly ugly teacher -- surely the one who moonlighted as a dominatrix -- made you fill a balloon with hydrogen until it burst?
Well, similarly, a man's penis, if aroused, will in its flight-or-fuck condition seek to burst forth like a grandiose display of patriotism on July 4th. And honestly, is your vagina the only place to prove that the sperm-spangled penis yet waves?
Admittedly, a man may experience a certain discomfort at not being able to thrust brass from his cannon; however, this pales in comparison to all the pain we women must endure, thereby making the brass monkey vs. vagina argument a completely moot point. Vagina trumps penis, period.
Girl, here's where you must soldier your resolve. If your man is love-worthy, offer alternatives in the battlefield of bed. Try man-handling the dangerous projectile with your hands, for example.
But if you suddenly find yourself face to testicle with a man you thought you loved -- said man masquerading in the form of a worthless sperm sack -- give him a good symbolic kick in the balls: he'll be singing the blues for sure.
Final ejaculation: stay away from men who claim to suffer from blue balls. You'll know when you've met the one with the right cojones, because instead of blue you'll see red -- in his loving heart.