So…about my junk…

Look who hasn’t blogged since declaring war on the elderly. THAT was a stupendous first impression to attach to my online identity for two weeks. But hey – I stand by that post. Want to fight, old people? Meet me at dusk exactly ten years from today. Oh wait…you won’t be able to because you’ll be dead. Are we done here or do we need a Bring It On style cheer-off? I’m already wearing my Spanx and have plenty of rage that will go nicely with a proper Fun Factory megamix. No? You’re good? Super.

Speaking of Spanx and the things that they contain, I recently convinced myself that I had Testicular Cancer. And I don’t just mean, “my underwear are too tight and I’m blaming the discomfort on a terrible disease instead of the bag of Sun Chips I just oral-sexed”. I mean, “what the hell is going on down there oh my god I need a vacation day so that when the doctor tells me to go straight to the hospital for an immediate eviction of Lefty, I can.

Quick check-in: who’s picturing my downstairs bits right now? You totally are, aren’t you? Call me.

(Sorry to all coworkers who will inevitably have to look me in the eye after reading this.)

But yeah. Something felt…different…which after twenty-five years of things not feeling different, quickly became cause for concern. It would be a lot like waking up to see that you have a new face. Or maybe it wouldn’t be at all like that – I’m just speculating here. What I’m trying to say is that Lefty was pulling a bit of a diva fit and after walking around for a few days being all, the FUCK is going on down there?, I ended up coming across a video documentary made by a guy I know who is actually battling testicular cancer right now. I don’t think I need to tell you that the video scared me so badly that both Lefty and Righty made like groundhogs declaring six more weeks of winter.

So, just like that, I was a responsible adult and booked a vacation day and a doctor’s appointment for the next week. Not because I was concerned for my own well-being, but because I’ll be DAMNED if I die first and the newf gets the house paid off by insurance all to himself. This mortal game of chicken is one that I intend to win. And can I just say that there’s nothing quite like coming to your hungover senses and realizing that you’re naked from the waist down with your feet in stirrups and an old man rummaging around down there? I mean…maaaybe on a Sunday during Gay Pride week but not just any ole day.

All in all, things are fine. My date I mean doctor I mean what? said that Lefty probably just got twisted during physical activity that I still try to convince him I do to maintain an entirely theoretical healthy and active lifestyle. Then he told me I should wear jockstraps which if his recommendation is to keep my junk from getting jumbled around MAYBE ASSLESS UNDERWEAR IS NOT THE BEST IDEA. In fact, I’m wondering how much the newf paid him to recommend that. That time the doctor recommended pink thongs and baby oil massages to get rid of my migraines it didn’t help at all.

The bottom line is that I’m healthy and not dying in the least, and that I’m really glad that I actually went to go get checked out, and that you should tell your men (or if you are a man, tell yourself) to go and let a doctor jiggle his junk for a 40 seconds to make sure the troops are in good shape. It’s not worth waiting to see if it goes away. Tell him he can think of me during the examination – it’ll make him feel better. In the pants.

Oh – and slutty underwear fixes everything. It turns out the newf was telling the truth the whole time.