Author’s Note: Being in public relations must really suck. These people sit in an office all day, firing off emails to deadbeat journalists in hopes of gaining some media coverage for their clients. Most of the time they get ignored. Hell, I personally dodge hundreds of them every stinking day. And on the rare occasion that I do spot something enticing and reach out with some interest in doing a story, the email exchange is about as boring as it gets – kind of like boning through a hole in a sheet. Why, yes, I’m interested in trying that product. Please send whatever you have to the following address. So, during the pandemic, I figured I’d give them a little more. While countless PR people continued to hammer me with emails, presumably from their homes, I hit a few of them back with some literary voodoo that none of them were expecting. Is it fiction or actual accounts of these crazy times in America? Well, that’s up to you to decide.
Hi Mike -
If you have any stories in the works covering “Keeping Yourself Fresh and Clean Between the Sheets,” I would love to send you samples of Ballsy (www.ballwash.com) — unlike anything on the market (you will see when you check out the website). The line doesn’t use any harsh chemicals or colognes, parabens, talc or alcohol. My husband uses it and he’s obsessed (and I have no complaints - LOL). Let me know if you want to try/cover any of these.
Taco Slinging, the Old Red Ass and One Seriously Infected Taint
Hey Megan! I don’t mean to get all Shakespearean on you or anything, but where in the hell have you been all my life? I certainly could have used these ball care products years ago, back when I was working as a line cook at a famous taco restaurant. Oh man, we used to sweat our goddamned nuts off in there for hours on end. By the middle of the shift, most of us had an excruciatingly painful case of monkey butt -- the old red ass, as some dude named Sherm used to call it. I mean, what do you expect? It was something like 500 degrees in there at all times. I often teased that if Dante would have worked fast food before writing “Inferno,” sweaty balls would have been deemed the Ninth Circle of Hell. I’m going to give it to you straight, Megan: Prisoners presently having the snot tortured out of them at Guantanamo Bay are not suffering as much as the average restaurant worker stuck in a kitchen from around July until the end of September.
Jeez, I can remember watching full-grown men, some of whom had spent time in prison, break down in tears because the chafing was just too much to handle. I’ll be honest, it often baffled me that tough guys who were always trying to show everyone how much of a badass they were, those who often bragged about all of the knock-down-drag-out fist fights they got into at the penitentiary while trying to avoid becoming someone’s cuddle buddy, would dare shed a tear over a little swamp ass. But they sure did. That should tell you everything you need to know about the fragility of the average man. Sure, you can build up your muscles and get strong, but you can’t do jack shit about a soft taint. I’m telling you, Megan, some of these cats would drop to their knees in agony, right there next to the nacho cheese, praying to the Gods of Dry Sacks for some semblance of relief. There all heretics now. It was nothing to hear guys whimpering like a wounded animal a few hours before their shift was over. They just couldn’t stand having sultry Jungle Nuts for that long. It was almost like being in the trenches of war, working at that place. Some of these dudes actually begged to be put down. Seriously, like, I got asked all the time to put things like empty lettuce sacks over somebody’s head so they could die right then and there and go to their grave with some dignity.
Don’t worry, Megan, nobody actually died.
This one dude, though – his name was Calvin -- blacked out one Taco Tuesday from a bad case of the old red ass. I shit you not! He was just standing there at his station, loading up a 7-Layer Burrito full of sour cream when all of a sudden, he started jabbering and twitching to beat the band. “I’m gonna need a moist towelette over here, fellas,” was the last thing he said before going down -- Boom! In a matter of seconds, that fool was face down on the floor covered in sour cream.
At first, we thought Calvin might have stroked out from the heat, but that wasn’t what happened at all. Come to find out a wicked case of monkey butt put that guy in a coma – for two whole weeks! He later told me that his chafing was so bad that his rashes had split open to the point where you could see how babies were made. He actually said that to me. There was even something about him having a raging infection on his taint. Good lord, I don’t have to tell you, it scared the shit out of the rest of us that it was actually possible to be hospitalized from wet balls and an infected taint. That bastard ended up getting worker’s comp for it, too. Can you imagine, Megan? Getting to sit at home and collect a weekly paycheck from the state because you passed out from a mean case of diaper rash while making a burrito? Welcome to America!
From that point forward, we started passing around a bottle of baby powder station to station just to keep our underwear as dry as possible. Dudes were flipped out. It wasn’t uncommon either to see guys shoving enormous globs of Vaseline down the front of their pants to stay greased up. Everyone understood that friction was the enemy, and nobody wanted to end up like Calvin.
Fortunately, I moved on from that life many years ago to become a journalist. But I, just like most men, still have plenty of days when a soggy sack gets a little precarious. There’s always problems down there, though. I swear there comes a time in every man’s life when his nether regions start looking more like an eccentric 80-year-old chain smoking glaucoma patient than anything else. However, these ball care products sound like they might help a lot of men whip their peckers into shape. So, yes, please, send me a big old box of them to try out. I’ll do my best to type out a review or something based on my experience. Oh, yeah, don’t forget to stick some of those wipes in there, as well. I could sure use them right now. The Lysol ones sting really bad.
XXXX Bellemeade Avenue
Evansville, Indiana 47714
You just made my day - and the folks at Ballsy! LOVE THIS EMAIL SO MUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I am going to send you all their stuff and you let me know what you think! Need CBD too?!
For sure! Toss some CBD in there, too! I need all the help I can get!
Disclaimer: This email was sent using my iPhone, which means I'm either at the horse track or trying to forget the day in some bar. Wish me luck!
Hollywood Pricks, Pecker Abuse and Scarface Goes Nuts
Hey Megan! Hot damn! Boy, we sure could have used these Ballsy products back in my taco-making days, let me tell you. Not only would they have prevented old Calvin from a sour cream covered coma and bad taint, but the whole crew would have been more pleasant to be around. Thanks for sending over the Ball Care Box, the Quickys Body Wipes and the Ballguard Liquid Powder.
It’s funny, a man never realizes just how much his business stick reeks of Limburger cheese and sadness until he’s walked around with it all gussied up for a while. I can clearly appreciate your husband’s obsession for these products. I’ve been giving the whole shebang a test ride now for approximately a week and my junk looks and feels as though it could appear in the pages of GQ magazine. It might sound crazy, Megan, but it almost looks as though it has six-pack abs now and the striking cheek bones of the Devil himself. Hell, if I could teach it to speak, I’m pretty sure it would have a fighting chance at becoming a star. Who knows? I believe it has what it takes to become the next 007. It’s just that goddamn distinguished. Perhaps its first film would be called Golden One-Eye.
Hey, don’t laugh! Considering all of the social advancements happening in our world today – did you know Chick-Fil-A doesn’t actually require customers to prove that their straight anymore before serving them? -- there’s no reason a man’s well-manicured schlong can’t go on to become Hollywood royalty. It’s a semi-progressive nation, after all, despite the present state of affairs.
Perhaps those bastards at Ballsy are onto something. American men should be taking better care of their baby-makers. It’s no wonder so many dudes are walking around impotent in this day and age. Our peckers – both large and small -- have given up on us. They’ve gone on strike, presumably because we’ve spent decades terrorizing the little pricks without really ever giving them the encouragement to rise above the downtrodden of our low sexual standards. And to top it off, we encage them on a daily basis, allowing them to sweat profusely behind walls of denim and cotton/polyester blends while they wallow in loneliness and haunting images of abuse. I know for a fact that mine hasn’t been treated right since it was just a teenager! It has emotional issues now.
Come to think of it, perhaps the time has come to launch a radical new movement. One that protects the rights of the average dangler. I mean, I’m not trying to get all political on you here, Megan, but someone needs to stand up for the little guy who can’t stand on his own. Perhaps I could be the spokesmodel. Hell, I’m not doing anything else! But how would we proceed? Well, I think the first step is instilling confidence. Every pecker across the nation deserves to be healthy, well-groomed and not cause the female persuasion to recoil in horror when it is unleashed. If we intend to create a better society for future generations, then I think it is absolutely imperative that we build it from the dick up. We’ll call it something like: Cock Lives Matter. I bet your PR firm could really find a creative way to sell the concept to the nation. Hell, to the world.
So where were we? Oh, yeah. It’s amazing just how much confidence a man stands to gain when his meat stick goes from dawning the appearance of an old homeless man with a vicious case of smallpox, one minute, to one hell of a handsome specimen of fuckability the next. And dry balls, well, let’s just say that anyone who goes down on me this week is going to get pretty thirsty. It’s like the sands of Gibraltar down there. Honestly, every time I go to use the bathroom, I half expect to see a sweaty camel come crawling out of my pants. Humps flatter than shit!
I have to admit, though, I may have gotten a bit overzealous with the Ballguard Liquid Powder. The directions said to apply a “quarter size amount,” but considering my age – I’m in my, ahem, 40s -- and the gradual but undeniably noticeable sagging that seems to have happened to the old undercarriage over the past few years, I thought it was probably in my best interest to go with 50 cents worth. Maybe 75 just to be safe. So, that’s what I did. I was surprised that it tingled so much at first. Sort of reminded me of the feeling I got that one time I accidentally used my girlfriend’s Nair in the shower. Only the Ballguard didn’t make me look like a 7-year old school boy.
However, what did happen is this: Within an hour or so, I completely forgot that I put it on. I’ve just been living without ball protection for so long that it totally escaped me. I went on to do all sorts of important stuff around the house. I organized my beer can collection, drank some beer, added those cans to my collection and then went to the store and bought more beer to drink so I could add those cans to my collection. It might not seem like hard work, Megan, but then again, you’ve never seen me drink beer. It gets interesting. At any rate, somewhere throughout the course of the day, I blacked out and lost time. This happens to me on occasion when I really tie one on. It’s the beer’s way of keeping me sane during this virus. But when I came to, it goes without saying that I had to take one hell of a leak. The old prostate just isn’t what it used to be.
But when I unzipped, something very strange came shooting out of my pants. I was shocked to see a cloud of white powder hovering above the toilet as if a were standing before a cocaine Hiroshima. Seriously, it looked like a scene straight from Scarface. “Say hello to my little friend” indeed. And I’m not going to lie, Megan, for a second I thought “Holy hell, dude, why in God’s name would you drag your balls through a bunch of cocaine?” I do some weird shit when I’m drunk sometimes, but tea-bagging a sack of coke just didn’t make any sense. I was just about to take a look around the house for someone, anyone who could explain why my balls looked like a couple of polar bears fucking in the snow when I spotted the Ballguard on the sink and remembered, “Oh yeah, that’s right, I doused my balls in that stuff before I got drunk.” I guess I didn’t realize that it actually turned to powder once it was applied. It was a fucked up couple of minutes, you don’t even know, but I’m pleased to report that everything turned out okay.
At any rate, I’m enjoying all of the ball care products you sent over very much. The only thing is the girl I’ve been seeing says Ballsy needs to come up with better flavors – perhaps something fruity. I don’t know, but apparently whole-ass women don’t care for the taste of cologne. But then again, I’m not sure I want my balls smelling like fruit. There’s bees out here and shit! Peanut butter won’t work either because of the dogs! Perhaps this flavor issue is just another round in the battle of the sexes. Ball care products might smell good, but no girl wants to taste them. Pass that along to the Ballsy folks and let me know what they come up.
After all, no nuts, no glory!