Well, last night and this morning were interesting. I lay down around nine thirty (hey, I have a baby) next to a wife complaining of nausea and occasionally running to the bathroom to throw up. After being assured that she wasn’t pregnant, I passed the fuck out as a gentleman of my social stature is wont to do. I woke, at eleven pm, with the following warning screaming in my brain: “You have five seconds until you shit. This is non-negotiable. Try to get somewhere relatively appropriate.”
I made it to the bathroom only to discover that I, like my wife, was the victim of food poisoning (off brand goyzas and questionable sesame oil seem to be the most likely culprits). It was, to put it mildly, brutal. I was pulling the old barf-into-the-garbage-can-while-you-shit-water-into-the-toilet move about every fifteen minutes from eleven to eleven. In that period of time, if my bathroom scale is to be believed, I lost seven pounds. I went through one whole roll of toilet paper and, once I was forced to get up and attempt to take care of my baby this morning, I shit my pants twice. That’s two distinct pairs of pants mind you-- not the same pair of pants shat into two different times. Not that THAT makes it any better. Ugh. It’s been a hell of a day. Tomorrow I’m supposed to go to Denver with my family. Until last night at eleven, I was really looking forward to this trip. Now, however, not so much. I don’t know how you pull the old double-headed-sprinkler move in a airplane bathroom, but if I’m still feeling like this tomorrow, I’ll let you know what I do.
It’s funny when you throw up water. That’s when your body is telling you in no uncertain terms to get fucked. Last night, I was so thirsty and dehydrated but every time I drank water, I’d start barfing again. AND, I was doing some serious barfing of water from my ass too, so in a way, I was like a beautiful fountain with two spouts. Hmmm…
Okay, enough of that. The response to the essay contest has been great. I encourage anyone who still wants to write an essay to go ahead and submit one. The contest is going to be open for a while. I believe that I’ve told my panel of judges that I want the final winner chosen no later than March of 2012, so that means you’ve got until March 2011 to get those essays in.
Anything else? Nah. For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, check out the post below for an outline of the essay contest. See you guys Monday!
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16 comments:
oh holy christ.
Before reading your labels I thought something along the lines of "So I need to get food poisoning 3 or 4 times..." I guess somewhat okay minds and great minds also think alike.
Here is my essay, sir.
Sometimes things aren't just rewards; they are high points of your life. Being able to slowly pry your balls off of your thigh is not just an honor, but a calling. To put it simply, it is my destiny. I never knew what my purpose in life was until this moment. I am on this planet for one purpose, to help all the balls in need. I am willing to use the Naked Raygun Regulation Fly Crusher to assist me when my fingers are tired and calloused from the gentle ball removing that I will be doing on such a frequent basis. I am at your disposal, sir.
i just read that the fat chick from mtv's "a double shot at love with the ikki twins" was killed in a fiery car accident. out of respect for kandi, the dead big-tittied overweight lesbian makeup artist, they edited out her "more outrageous behavior" and only included clips of her dressed up as a pig, drinking excessively, and getting into a fight with another crusty bang.
oh, ps- that's why i should be picked to suck your balls or whatever.
I didn't have the urge to unstick your balls. Until I read this post. Something about it all just made it instantly more appealing.
i was totally throwing up last night as well. cool.
for the record, whiskey and nyquil don't mix, even with a meal in between.
Too much info.
Dig the Conrad references! Couldn't pick a more apt topic than projectile ass and mouth fluids to use it with. Anyways, I heard Denver is supposed to have some awesome snow right now. I can't wait to go back home for a couple of weeks!
Having to shit and throw up at the same time is like my biggest fear.
As someone who once suffered the wonderful condition known as the Dual Fountainhead, I can vouch that it is a fascinating and horrifying experience if, for whatever reason, people don't take Brendan's word for it.
so I think I got food poisoning this weekend too (yesterday) and did the double-headed sprinkler. I'm in agony and all I can think of is this blog entry.
This is possibly the best thing I have read in weeks. Thank you so much for this.
kinda related... kinda...
So... this one time... I got the flu... and Izzaq got the flu... and Zavery got the flu... yup... me and 2 babies... all at the same damn time... So I was finally able to get some rest, Laid down in my bed cuddle between Izzaq and Zavery, and 15 minutes woke up to a gurgling sound... rolled over and both both threw up... on me... so there I was, covered in puke, sick myself... so we all got in the bath tub... cleaned up, washed the sheets, and made it down to the couch. So there we were... again... Izzaq was laying on my chest on the couch.... we had finally fallen asleep again, when Izzaq popped up out of nowhere... looked me in the eyes, a threw up... allll over me... in my hair... my mouth... all over the couch and my SECOND set of clean clothes... yeah... it was not my most glorious moment. Those are the parenting things you can look forward to :)
After giving this a reasonable amount of thought, I believe your ball bag should stay stuck to your thigh(s). There are probably dozens of factors that led me to this conclusion, but two (2) are more relevant. One factor is safety. The other factor is artful elegance.
If your testes are snug against the meat of your leg, they are not left out there to dangle in the wind (provided you are pantless and outdoors (or at the very least, near an open window)). There’s a damn good chance you are at least one of those. I mean, sure. We have all had those days where the boys are just hangin’ low and lazy and everything’s copacetic. But then you find yourself playing ping pong and lunging for a shot or running down a flight of stairs at an odd pace, and your balls inevitably bounce around and make that clapping sound when they hit your leg. Yeah, it’s a fun sound and people are generally impressed when they hear it, but you have to know that you are just one overlooked fire hydrant away from getting the male equivalent of an episiotomy. I assume you’re a shorter man and that the top of a fire hydrant would be ball dangle height. I could be wrong. Moreover, I hope I’m wrong. Get your eyes checked just to be on the safe side. Because they paint those fucking hydrants yellow these days. I’d say you have more problems than a split open sack if you can’t see the thing. But I don’t know you or your eyesight, so it’s your call on that one.
Now, on to the aesthetics of a stuck sack. There is nothing uglier than a pair of balls just flopping around. It doesn’t matter if they’re hairy, sweaty, greasy, what have you. It’s just off putting. This is also why I feel that the turkey is the ugliest bird known to man. Something about that thing hanging from their faces makes me cringe. What if they got it caught in a sliding glass door? Or what if they were going after some bird food in the feeding frenzy, and one of their bird buddies took a clean bite out of it on accident? These are questions I don’t want to answer. But they also relate back to the safety issue, which drives that point home. Anyway, to combat the banality of a lonesome pair of balls, it makes sense to keep them pasted to your thighs. There is a certain beauty in that “bat wing” effect you mentioned to be sure. Think Christo’s curtain across the Grand Canyon. Some, if not most, people say that he wasted an awful lot of money doing that. They wouldn’t be wrong. But you have to admit that it looked pretty bitchin’. Well, guess what. You don’t have to pay a dime to get that very same look in your very own pants. Tell me that’s not a bargain! And, not to go all Billy Mays on you or anything, there’s an added bonus! To get the full glory of the view, it would have to be seen from the vantage point of the 9 in the 69 position. And since you’re already in position, why not go for it? That’s like peeling a banana and not eating it. Or it’s like falling into a barrel of tits and coming up sucking your thumb (if we’re going to stick to the sexually themed analogies).
In summation, the slight uncomfortableness of your balls sticking to your legs stands in glaring contrast to the extreme discomfort of your sack getting tangled in the blades of an oscillating fan. If given a choice, it’s Option A all the way. And if you’re worried about the smell of a sticky ball sack getting progressively smelly, you don’t have anything to worry about. Your balls have perma-stink. It ain’t coming off unless you remove the set. You can dunk those bastards in an Aqua Velva / Clorox Bleach bath and they would still come out smelling like rancid chicken. Good luck with whatever it was you were trying to do with this.
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