Balls of fire

Men are strange. Well, their relationship with their private parts specifically is strange. Apparently men these days are queuing up to have surgery to get bigger balls. Literally. Why? Why do they care? It's not like they're continuously out there for everyone to see, you know, like boobs. And even in the situations when they do make an appearance... do women really care? Really?

We're really just bothered about the actual star. Balls are like.. the trailers of bad (well, are there any other kind?) Jean Claude van Damme films you have to suffer through before the romantic comedy featuring Hugh Grant. (BTW, have you noticed how he seems to recycle the same wardrobe in every single one of his films?). Really, that's how little we care.

They're not even particularly pretty. Of all the men I've had intimate moments with I've never really established any kind of meaningful relationship with their scrotum. Unlike their schmeckies, I could not identify their testicles in a line-up.

Yet (and without a doubt a direct result of my dry spell that shows no signs of ending) I keep seeing them everywhere. My brother works in the army and one night we got talking about hand grenades. We were probably talking about some kind of a devastating incident that had claimed innocent human lives but all I could think about how hand grenade looks like scrotum. 

Someone I know had a pet turtle. In my eyes it just looked like a massive scrotum.

I decided to up my Omega fatty acid intake (apparently it's good for your hair) and went to the health shop to buy some walnuts. And, as the name, too, suggests, they just looked like scrotums. I decided to do without.

Not sure how much longer I can do without the real deal though...