Wednesday, September 18, 2013
The ballsy man syndrome
“Daddy, what are those grapefruit doing in the sack between your legs?”
Not an easy one to answer if you’re trying to set an example of modest self-deprecation to the younger generation.
Big-balled men can easily avoid such questions by wearing baggy pants, but few of them have the patience to look after children. Back in my circus days, there was a brawny Puerto Rican who performed stunts on horses. His name was Miguel de Bolas and his nut-sack was visibly well-packed. I once spit out a cherry stone in his direction and it hit him between the eyes, which prompted him to say:
“Hey buddy, I fock your modder in de ass!”
This was one of his favourite salutations.
“A wise man does not put his appendage in places he cannot extract it from,” I replied aphoristically.
He was not a wise man, of course. Most of his evenings were spent in taverns, looking for women to bewilder and men to insult. After one of these excursions, he surfaced next morning with bruises on his face. When the ringmaster asked him what had happened, Miguel said “You should a seen de udder guy.”
Suspecting that his macho behaviour was related to his oversized gonads, the circus doctor gave him female sex hormones, telling him that the pills would keep his skin healthy. We knew the treatment was working when he praised Rock Hudson:
“Dat guy was better-lookin' den der womans he kissed,” said Miguel, after watching a re-run of McMillan and Wife.
You don’t say things like that about Rock Hudson unless the male and female aspects of your personality are in balance.
Miguel’s case history makes me wonder what happens to virile men when they grow old. Empirical evidence on this question is provided by a 74-year-old Brazilian man who is planning to marry a goat. Aparecido Castaldo has fathered eight children from four different wives, so we can reasonably surmise that his testicles have served him well and are probably in rude heath as we speak. However, Senor Castaldo has no intention of consummating his nuptials with the lovely Carmelita, who ate her first wedding dress and will be provided with another. He explains his intentions thus:
“Whenever someone says I am doing something wrong, I reply the goat does not speak, ask for money to go shopping, and doesn’t get pregnant – and she can’t talk.”
Fascinating that the qualities he most admires in his fiancé are things that she doesn’t do rather than does. He isn’t concerned that she won’t be able to make him a cup of tea, but maybe none of his previous wives did that either. The moral of the story seems to be that a former stud will fall in love with anyone who refrains from nagging him and eats all the leftovers.
Labels: bestiality, big balls, marriage, parenting
Monday, January 31, 2011
Balls of Sheen, Jizz of Becks
A tourist at the safari guesthouse speculates about the size of Charlie Sheen’s testicles.
“I’m guessing they’re bigger than golf balls,” he says.
The evidence he offers for this conjecture is a news report about a weekend the actor spent in Las Vegas, where he allegedly copulated with prostitutes on a revolving-door basis. I tell the tourist that such feats of debauchery, although impressive in their own terms, do not amount to conclusive proof.
“The source you cite mentions that Mr Sheen was ‘coked out of his head’,” I point out. “The aphrodisiac effect of that narcotic might enable a man with gonads the size of grapes to spend a weekend skewering whores.”
“You could be right,” agrees the tourist, “but without big balls he’d be firing blanks pretty soon. I guess you gorillas don’t have to worry about that.”
“We conserve our ammunition and try to make every shot count,” I reply modestly, resisting the temptation to boast or exaggerate. “The animals with the biggest ones in relation to bodyweight are a species of grasshopper. They enable the male to impregnate scores of females in a frenetic spree of hop-on, hop-off action.”
“Grasshoppers!” exclaims the tourist. “Who’d have thunk it? I’ll remember not to keep them as pets so I don’t get an inferiority complex!”
“You could eat them to get a superiority complex,” I suggest.
I later regret having discussed the issue of ball-size with the tourist. Although one should always be civil to guests, there’s no need to feed their delusions about the importance of a well-packed scrotum. For, as we say in the jungle, the proof of the bollock lies in the potency of its seed.
One man who has no deficiency in this regard is Mr Becks, having recently impregnated Victoria Spice for the fourth time. This happy news was greeted with joyous celebrations in the African bush – the elephants blew their trumpets; the rhinos swished their horns; the crocodiles thrashed their tails against the rumps of lounging hippos.
My females did their “squat-and-grunt” dance, offering prayers that the new arrival would emerge from the orifice that Nature intended, rather than being surgically extracted in the manner of its siblings. We gorillas are traditionalists on the question of childbirth, believing that a baby should come out the same way it got in. While it’s true that Victoria’s figure is not ideal for squeezing them through the birth canal, there are ways of preparing her for the required exertions. A tub of Vaseline and a zucchini can achieve great things in the right hands.
What I admire most about Victoria is the way she always manages to get knocked up when some floozy is claiming to have slept with her husband. It’s as if a sixth sense tells her when her marriage is under threat, prompting her to jump on Mr Becks while he’s doing the junior crossword puzzle. I don’t for one minute believe the scurrilous tales of infidelity in the gutter press, but it’s nice to see a wife who knows how to remind her man where his virile juices belong.
Labels: big balls, Charlie Sheen, natural childbirth, Victoria Spice
