Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Category Archives: Humor
There’s criminal child abuse. And then there’s war ball.
Note before we get rolling: I’m updating my blogroll. If I have been neglectful, drop a note in the comments, and I’ll get you added. I really do like to keep tabs on all the people who visit this place.
Remember this post, where I dropped some names in the hopes my old pals would find me by egomaniacally googling their own names? Great idea, but it didn’t work. My pal Sharon (whom I’ve known since Mrs. Bisetti’s kindergarten class) found me because I dropped a reference to Malice, cuz she had a bit role in the movie. I think you were in scrubs, Sharon, but I knew it was you. No one else in that Hollywood OR knew how to act.
So Sharon dropped me an email, and we shot the shit, and she mentioned that a friend of hers might know something about an old friend of mine, whom I had googled once upon a time and came up with bupkes. He recently entered the blogosphere, though, and with Sharon’s additional information that he’s a freelance writer, I tracked him down. His name is Mike Imlay, and I’ve added him to my blogroll.
Mike, this post is for you.
***
Mike and I had to be the littlest kids in our junior high school class. I haven’t seen Mike since 9th grade, so I’m guessing he had a late growth spurt and now I’m the only little kid left from our junior high. My life is kind of like that.
Because Mike and I made up a weight class all our own, we paired off together for wrestling. This worked out to our advantage since we were both bright kids and the other boys would have murdered us, given the chance. We didn’t do so well at other PE activities, and in particular, our lives were in jeopardy every effin rainy day. That’s because rain meant indoor activities.
Rain meant war ball.
Snape hearts Michelle Duggar
The phone rang four times before I picked it up. I sat in bed, benumbed and lobotomized, feeling as though I had just had my eyelids pried open Clockwork Orange-fashion, and had been forced to watch The Sound of Music at top volume. It took me a moment to answer the operator.
“Are you there, sir? Sir?”
British accent. At some level, I knew what was coming. The cheap bastard was doing it to me again.
“Yes,” I said, shaking off my mental haze. “Yes, I guess I am here after all.”
“I have a Mr. Snape here, sir — excuse me, a Professor Snape. Do you accept the charges?”
I sighed, rolled my eyes for Karen’s benefit, pointed at the phone and mouthed the word Snape.
“Oh, all right, then. Go ahead.” (more…)
You could make a stone ache.
Like many of you, I sometimes check my referrals. How are people finding Balls and Walnuts? Well, this morning, someone found me by searching for “testalgia”.
Hmm. I didn’t even know I had written about testalgia, but apparently so. Back in October, a big Technorati slutstravaganza month for yours truly, I concluded a lengthy blogwhoring section with the following:
Awright, awright, that’s enough whoring for the weekend. If I do any more of this, I’ll end up with testalgia. Ask Beth, she knows what it means.
I’ll bet Beth has forgotten all about this, too. Or not.
Testalgia, also known as orchialgia, also known as orchidynia (guys, bet you didn’t know your stones were also orchids!) is commonly known as blue balls or stone ache. With sexual arousal, the genitals engorge with blood. Primarily, this is a venous capacitance effect. In other words, it’s the venous system, not the arterial system, which swells with blood. If orgasm occurs, the vessels relax and everything goes back to normal. If not, then the vessels may remain distended.
According to this Discovery Health Article,
This uneven blood flow causes an increase in volume of blood trapped in the genitals and contributes to the penis becoming erect and the testicles becoming engorged with blood. During this process of vasocongestion the testicles increase in size 25-50 percent.
Wow! I wasn’t imagining it. There’s more:
The condition usually does not last long and the level of pain associated with blue balls is usually minor and can be exaggerated. Most men have been socialized to ejaculate when they get an erection during sexual activity. Failure to ejaculate and to feel orgasm often adds frustration and disappointment to the reality of the physical sensation.
Like hell it’s minor. Guys, back me up on this. Think back to your virginal days, when all you could do was kiss and grope for hours. Felt like you’d been kicked in the nads afterwards, didn’t it?
I learned from Discovery Health that women get stone ache, too. In med school, we were taught that we should be very gentle during that portion of a pelvic exam when we palpated the ovaries. My fingers are too short, so I never did get to feel an ovary. Some women, I could barely reach the cervix. So ended my budding career as a gynecologist.
I would like to conclude this public service announcement with a snip from one of my favorite Country Western songs.
You can tell my arms : Go back into the farm!
You can tell my feet to hit the floor.
You can tell my lips to tell my fingertips,
they won’t be reaching out for you no more.
But don’t tell my balls,
my achy breaky balls
D.
So I lied
I do have bupkes.
And so does Mr. Squirrel, by the look of it.
Superdickery.com has dozens of intentionally? unintentionally? suggestive comic book illustrations for your edification. Enjoy.
D.
A star-studded golden shower
Isn’t it ironic that I’m stunned, blinded-in-the-headlights by a woman who makes her living deriding the famous and wealthy, who has written at length on the soul-raping effects of fame?
Well, maybe not ironic. I’m enamored of Cintra Wilson because of her writing, not her fame, since after all she’s not particularly famous. Hell, Maureen Dowd probably has much greater name recognition, but I’d take dinner with Wilson over Dowd any day of the week. Sorry, Maureen.
In the February 8-21 issue of The Wave Magazine, in her column The Dregulator, Cintra writes:
Paris Hilton has apparently been leaving her territorial mark anywhere she feels like it — just because she feels like it — and she can do anything she wants — so there. The New York Post reported in October that Paris had an “accident” in the corridor of a Las Vegas hotel. And a couple of weeks ago, Mike Walker of The Enquirer wrote, Maui cab driver Harden Jamison picked up Miss Piss late one night with Greek man-o-kopeta Stavros Niarchos. While he drove, Jamison claims, the heiress hiked up her blue satin dress and relieved herself on his back seat. Jamison had the good fortune to serendipitously run into Paris the next night, and he confronted her. She whined outraged denials. Jamison reportedly screamed, “I kept the towel . . . I’VE GOT THE DNA!” One of her entourage allegedly tried to buy him off for $200.
Be careful with that sponge, Eugene
First came The Shining, reimagined as the feel-good movie of the year. (Good thing Peter Gabriel isn’t dead; otherwise, he’d be forced to turn in his grave.)
Then came Brokeback to the Future.
Since I’m too tired at the moment to do anything but dick around at YouTube, here’s Tom Cruise on Oprah as It Should’ve Been.
I don’t think I’ll ever tire of these.
And, now playing at YesButNoButYes, Spongeback Mountain.
D.
My ass is back
After working out three times a week for six weeks, including 35 to 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer at each workout, my ass has returned and is here to stay.
Sadly, the picture doesn’t do it justice. What you really need is FeelAround.
“It’s no good,” I told Karen. “It just looks like a standard skinny white guy’s ass. If my pants slipped any lower, I’d look like our plumber.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the best of the dozen. I’m not taking any more.”
“You need to take a photo of it without all the clothing in the way.”
“No. Uh-uh. No way.”
“But –”
“Besides. You’d have to shave your ass, or else people still wouldn’t be able to see it.”
Okay. I’m game.
D.
Bare Rump weighs in on the Dick Cheney human-hunting fiasco
Walnut asked me to comment on your Vice President’s foray into the delightful and rewarding avocation of human-hunting, since I have, after all, become quite skilled in that regard —
Oh, please don’t look at me like that. Don’t you think I’d rather be preying upon livestock and such? Can I help it if humans taste better than cows? I assure you, I have only been eating soulless folks who won’t be missed, like telemarketers, boy bands, and petroleum industry executives. Does that make you feel better?
When last we spoke — in November, as I recall — I had just discovered the human sex toy industry. Lord Valor (my sweetie) was none too pleased by that post. “You’re getting distracted. You need to focus on your task here on Earth, Tina.” (He calls me Tina. He is so sweet.) “Make your way to the US President. Establish proper diplomatic relations between your people and the humans.”
But how to get close to the most powerful man in your world? That was my problem. Then, one day while watching the brouhaha over that rakish fellow Jack Abramoff (he looks yummy in his fedora and trenchcoat. When I see a coating like that, I can’t wait to taste the filling!), it dawned on me: Money.
Why shouldn’t I use my ample funds to buy myself an audience with President Bush? That seems to be the way it’s done in your world. And so, I began meeting with Republican fundraisers across the country. Talk about soulless. I would have eaten more of them, but my triglycerides began soaring like you wouldn’t believe.
To make a long story short, a certain Katherine Armstrong invited me to her ranch, stating that for a price she would introduce me to Harry Whittington, who in turn would introduce me to Dick Cheney.
I demurred. “It’s George Bush I need to meet, not some second-rate flunky.”
“Honey,” said Kath (she lets me call her Kath), “Dick’s the top in that relationship. Got it?”
The top. Yes, remembering how my ill-fated relationships had turned out, I indeed understood the top.
What I have been trying to tell you in my roundabout way is that I was an eyewitness to Dick Cheney’s human-hunting expedition. Um . . . that’s not entirely honest. Eyewitness is far too passive. I’m afraid I suggested it to Dick.
Not in any direct way, mind you. When I saw him staggering about the ranch, waving his big, big gun at those teensy, teensy birds, I said, “Gee, Mr. Vice President. It would take an awful lot of those quail to satisfy this girl’s appetite.”
“Graaaahr,” he said. He says that rather a lot. “Grr gaaak graaaahr?”
“Dick says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?'” said Mr. Whittington. “Wants to know what you been eatin’.”
“A trio of HMO administrators,” I replied.
“Gr-graak?” said Mr. Cheney. “Aaar graaahr graaahr! Heheheheheh.” Then he turned to one of his Secret Service men and said, “Grr graaahr grak grrr,” and the Secret Service man ran off into the brush.
With a sudden premonition of dread, I put a leg on Mr. Whittington’s shoulder. “What’s happening, Harry?”
“Dick says, ‘Human flesh, eh?’ Then he asked his boy to go rustle up some illegals.”
“Oh,” I said quietly. “Um, sir? That’s just not right.”
“Graaaharrr.”
“Dick says, ‘Don’t gimme no double standards.'”
“You see, sir, I try to make the world a better place by eating people.”
“Grrka graarhr.”
Mr. Whittington wouldn’t look me in the eyes. His voice seemed to catch in his throat. “Dick says, ‘Me too.'”
Well, you know the rest. I’m happy to report that no illegal aliens were injured on Dick Cheney’s human-hunt, but Mr. Whittington did not fare as well. I do hope he recovers quickly!
Bare Rump
Technorati tags: Whittington, Bush, Cheney
The Dark Lord speaks
Now edited — for pronouns!
As many of you have heard, Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange’s condition has been upgraded to “aura slightly tweaked, but rallying nicely, thank you very much” by the healing wizards of Hoppesheadde Hospital. The circumstances of last Monday’s wand injury remain somewhat mysterious, owing in large part to Lord Voldemort’s reluctance to speak.
Fortunately, Balls and Walnuts enjoys an excellent working relationship with Severus Snape, Hogwarts’ Potions Master and Defense Against the Dark Arts Instructor. Although Lord Voldemort declined interviews with CNN and MSNBC, he agreed to talk either with Brit Hume of Fox News, or Severus Snape of Balls and Walnuts. Upon reflection, he granted the interview to Severus, stating, “Hume’s a softball-lobbing simpleton, a moron and a muggle. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Full interview below the cut. (Technorati tag: Dick Cheney)
(more…)
That was fast!
Check it out. Mel Gibson, Tom Delay, and Alan Rickman are over there offering their sympathies.
D.