A brah's epic battle against nature.

Today in F-You Nature: Boobs and Balls

Todays “fuck you nature” gig is somewhat of a double-header, although the end result is definitely in the same ballpark (balls?  whatev).  It’s time to finally lay the smack down on a pair of somethings that have had extreme control over my life for the past 16 years or so: boobs.  I love boobs.  I love them.  I love them so much that if Earth was spiraling out of orbit and into the fucking sun right now, I would stop hording water and stockpiling guns for the obvious imminent fire-zombie apocalypse, to watch a screaming chick wearing a low-cut tank top running for her life.  There is no event that you could ever imagine that, if a pair of boobs was somehow involved for even a split second, I could ignore them.  And it’s a fucking curse, let me tell you.  First off, it’s extremely inconvenient to have this weakness.  I cannot even tell you how many first dates I’ve had gone bad because some breasty waitress was leaning over somebody else’s table way across the restaurant to refill water.  Well, 2.  But that’s besides the point.  And it’s not like I could lie about looking, mostly because my stupid swivel-head was cranked around like that asshole owl that eats your tootsie pops, even though I was still only trying to glimpse the glory out of the corner of my eye, as if the chick I was with at the time would hate me less for not making full eye contact.

Whatever.  There is more to this shit.  Women: IF YOU ARE WEARING A SHIRT THAT ALLOWS ME TO SEE YOUR CLEAVAGE, I WILL LOOK.  There, the truth will set you free.  I know it’s shitty, but it’s true, I can’t help it.  Maybe you’re just wearing a low cut shirt because you’re afraid that if the twins don’t see the light of day, they will sprout hair and mushrooms and shit, it doesn’t matter.  Until the day comes that She-Ra, Wonder Woman and Xena get together to use their estrogenical fe-powers to blind me, I will look.  I will go out of my way to look.  You could be stuffing your bra with fucking socks, and even if I consciously KNEW that you were stuffing your bra with socks and could see the Nike “swoosh” logo hanging out of your shirt, I’ll still look.  AND, on the flip side, apparently boobs aren’t all that awesome for the ladies.  I have 2 female friends that have had breast reduction surgery for back pain.  WHAT IN THE GREAT BLUE FUCK?  Why give humanity such a glorious gift, only to have it cause pain to the bearers of said gift(s)?  That’s fuckin weak, and everyone knows it, nature.

Which brings me to my next topic, testicles.  My good friend Lindsay trains in Krav Maga, which is pretty badass.  I never really knew a whole lot about that martial art, but after watching numerous YouTube videos, I have to say that the number 1 Krav Maga attack is the whole thunder-kick-to-the-ballsack thing.  Holy shit.  Israelis came up with a martial art dedicated to stomping scrotums.  Now, I love my balls.  It doesn’t matter that they look like an albino skin-satchel, because they’re part of what makes up my man-hood and all that macho stuff.  But, once again, nature has to go tampering with a good thing, and instead of balls being reinforced with a fucking armadillo shell or something awesome and useful, they’re just hanging their like some tender grapes waiting for any accidental contact that could potentially send me straight into the fetal position, like Justin Bieber after the doctor told him that he was a boy.  Why give man such a weakness?  Because nature is a fuckface that basically installed a goddamn hanging target between mans’ legs.  It’s like a miniature pinata that awards blood and tears instead of cheap Mexican candy when beaten.  I remember one time I did a cannonball off of the diving board at the pool near my house when I was a kid, and I must’ve hit the water scrotum first, because in that instant, it felt like a kangaroo made entirely of granite legs got a running start and kicked me directly in the nutsack.  I’m pretty sure that I tried to drown myself, but my sack was so swollen from that fucking catastrophe that I kept floating to the surface of the water.  Fuck.

And finally, to tie it all together, blue-fucking-balls.  Nature’s ultimate coup d’etat.  Let me just say that it’s fucked up that the possibility of intense discomfort and pain could come from playing with wonderful, glorious boobs.

Fuck you, Nature.

Yea, blue balls make me want to vomit too, my monkey friend.

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