Hello everyone.
Today I’d like to talk about balls.
That’s right, this week it’s all
about balls.
Balls of all shapes, sizes,
textures, and consistencies. Come along;
we’re going on a journey together. Bring
beers.
An old friend of mine used to say, “Women have dicks and balls; their dicks are just shortened and their balls are internalized.”
Makes sense, if you think about it.
I spent two nights this week getting
balls shot towards me at high velocity.
A lot of them I stopped. Some of
them I didn’t.
Because
I’m a nice person, (I really am. You
would love me in real life. We should hang
out some time.) I subbed for this team that always has trouble getting
players. To play against a really good
team, that I used to play for. (Last
summer their goalie wanted to take off, so they asked me to step in; we
developed a really good dynamic together, won the league, and then they were
like, “See ya.”)
It
was like target practice—balls flying at me left and right—because for some
reason my defenders couldn’t fathom how to mark up the forwards, and left them
open to receive long balls every. single. time.
We lost. Bad. And afterwards when I shook hands with the
opposing team, they were all like, “I hate playing against you.” Really bitch?
You scored on me EIGHT TIMES. (Like
a sophomore on prom night.) That wasn’t
enough? As Inigo Montoya would say, “Humiliations galore.”
Also, this week I made balls. Juicy, delicious balls, composed of tender
young meat. Veal and lamb, to be
precise. Nothing gets a tongue dancing
like the delectable taste of ground innocence.
It’s like a Kool-Aid slide of butterflies and unicorns and glitter and
Easy Bake Oven cupcakes and all Bambi’s woodland creature friends frolicking
down the ole gullet. Which is preferable
to the fountain of mucus that’s been flowing from my nose down the back of my
throat for two weeks, from the second
cold I caught this summer (eff you, immune system).
And
the sauce I made to go with it is perfection—my first time making a vodka cream
sauce. All I knew was, it just wouldn’t
be right to slather those balls with any ordinary store-bought sauce. (I have to confess that part of this picture
is a lie. See that corn? It’s not cooked, it’s just for looks. In fact, I didn’t cook it until the night
after this photo was taken, because I was too busy fending off balls flying at
my face.)
If you notice a change in my
attitude and an increase in my use of profanity, it’s because I’ve been reading
far too much of this blog:
Samantha
Irby is a chick with huge balls I can’t get enough of. She’s hilarious, and she’s not afraid to put
it all out there, with a healthy sprinkling of expletives thrown in for good
measure. I’m addicted.
Friday I was in charge of
balls. And sacks. The knife thrower needed someone to help run
the sideshow games—toss the balls in the buckets, beanbag toss, and shoot the
cups with the air gun. So I got all
corseted up in a feathered peacock-looking number; rounded out with self-ruched
thrift-store skirt, petticoat, elbow-length opera gloves, fishnets, and flowers
for my hair. While my partner—a drag
queen named Maxi
who sported towering heels and a two-foot-high afro—tried to load the air gun, I watched her get hit in the face
with at least four BBs because they kept popping out. I wasn’t going anywhere near that thing. I stuck with my balls and my bags; the trusty
old standards.
Saturday was The Naked Bike Ride and
an all-sideshow revue at a bear bar.
Leather and balls everywhere.
The
knife thrower needed help once again—an accomplice to “volunteer” to go on stage
so he could play a trick on her. I had
to pretend we didn’t know each other, and pretend to be scared. No acting required—soon as I set foot under
the spotlights my nerves went completely haywire. The trick had to do with whips—he’s not just
a one-hit wonder, after all. So I got on
stage, and he directed me to a tape line where he wanted me to stand profile to
the audience.
“Now, get on your knees.”
Because my favorite thing is to be a
smartass I wanted to say, “How long have you been waiting to say that to me?” but the jig would’ve been
up. Instead I remained standing, crossed
my arms, and cocked a hip out to the side, putting on my most stubborn
expression.
Offstage
I heard about five dudes yell out, “I will, I will!”
“Come now madam, there is nothing to
worry about.”
I complied. I didn’t know what else to do with my hands,
so I clasped them behind my back. And
sucked in my stomach.
Next
his lovely assistant placed a foam clown nose over mine, and blindfolded me
with a blindfold I could see right through.
“Now everyone be quiet; I need my
full concentration for this trick, because I’ve been drinking since noon.”
Very slowly, I brought my right hand
out from behind my back and held the middle finger aloft for him (and the
audience) to see.
He laughed into the microphone. I retracted my hand.
What the audience saw was him loudly
cracking a long-tailed whip nowhere near my face, and his assistant flicking
the clown nose off my face. Hence I (the
unsuspecting “victim”) was supposed to believe he had used the whip to knock it
off—if I weren’t in on the joke, and able to see exactly what was going on.
So when I got off the stage,
everyone told me I did very well and was incredibly brave to endure such a
feat. I played along; it wasn’t hard, my
hands didn’t stop shaking for at least half an hour. I really don’t like being the center of
attention.
Beautiful, colorful, bright, and sparkly balls!
Sunday I got to watch Mexicans kick
balls (and each other) and eat road stand tacos. Apparently there is a really competitive soccer
league that plays in the city every Sunday—the teams are even sponsored. It was all men—very fast, very violent—and
the asada was as good as anything I had in Mexico.
Whether at foot, in hand, or in
mouth, my life seems to be steeped in balls at the moment. Or balls seem to be steeping in my life. Like teabags.
Heh. Heheh.
Come on, even dick jokes get old
sometimes and you’ve got to switch it up!
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