XLII. My Balls. July 24, 2020

>driving Lyft

>my balls itch

>my balls REALLY itch

>as all people with balls know

>it is not meet to LITERALLY scratch one’s balls

>one must instead perform a complicated pinching ritual upon the sack

>a technique that cannot be taught

>and is perhaps even more impossible to explain to non-ball-havers

>the pinches may be in the vicinity of the itch

>or elsewhere, seemingly unrelated to the itch

>the entire purpose being to distract the balls from the itch

>by making them think they are being attacked

>but the thirty seconds or so of digging that my balls require

>is not something I think my passenger would enjoy watching

>and the app says she will be with me for fifteen minutes

>so I must refrain

>my balls assure me I will be dead in fifteen minutes

>if I do not take care of this

>but what can I do

>say “Hey lady, I’m gonna pinch my balls for a minute, could you look away for me?”

>or make and maintain eye contact

>thus to ensure she doesn’t look at my balls

>or, when I am arrested for being lewd and lascivious

>tell the judge “No ma’am, it wasn’t sexual at all; I just really really had to scratch my balls”

>my balls care nothing for my anxiety

>they demand treble satisfaction

>and so the itch intensifies

>it begins as similar to the itch created by sitting in a wet swimsuit on an aluminum picnic table

>by minute five it has rocketed past ringworm

>blew by chigger territory

>and soon proves itself a denizen of what the Boy Scouts used to call jungle rot

>when I am finally able to stop the car

>my balls are convinced they have contracted the river blindness

>the lady leaves, thank all the saints

>and now I am a ghost crab fighting a dead jellyfish

>blessed relief

>topped by the obligatory finger-sniff