Grow a pair (or buy one)

Meet the neuticle.

No, this is not a Bertie Botts Jelly Bean*, but you are welcome to eat one, if you’d like. Here are some recipes.

It’s the “NeuticlesNatural,” to be exact, which is “FDA medically-approved solid silicone. Not gel filled or saline filled but a soft solid rubber-like material that replicates the pets testicle in firmness once implanted.” (Um . . . who, exactly, is checking their dog’s balls for firmness?)

Neuticles came to my attention when the inventor of neuticles, Gregg A. Miller, won the 2005 IgNobel Prize for Medicine. Fake dog balls (and kitty balls) have made the rounds of the blogosphere of late, including this rather longish but interesting discussion at Pandagon, regarding men so nervous about their own manhood that they won’t get their dogs neutered.

I think Pandagon is right. The good folks at Neuticles would like you to believe that a new pair of rubber cojones will help your neuteree’s self-esteem, but whose self-esteem is in jeopardy here?

I’m reminded of one of cultural anthropology’s more notorious treatises, Clifford Geertz’s “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight.” I read it in college, and one line has stuck with me to this day (and thank heavens for the web, cuz my memory would have mangled it):

To anyone who has been in Bali any length of time, the deep psychological identification of Balinese men with their cocks is unmistakable. The double entendre here is deliberate. It works in exactly the same way in Balinese as it does in English, even to producing the same tired jokes, strained puns, and uninventive obscenities. Bateson and Mead have even suggested that, in line with the Balinese conception of the body as a set of separately animated parts, cocks are viewed as detachable, self-operating penises, ambulant genitals with a life of their own.

Which brings me to the core question of tonight’s post: what are the ambulant genitals of the 21st Century?

I really don’t know. I’m just askin’.

D.

*My advice? When eating Bertie Botts Jelly Beans, stay away from Vomit.

Somehow, Aziz’s words sound much better when Snoop Dogg sez ’em

From Jurassic Pork, who got it from Blue Gal, meet Gizoogle, a translator which will turn any web page into Dogg-speak.

My little frog has this to say, post-translation:

No, you may not breed wit me, so stiznop dippin’.

Remember yesterday’s bit on the Guardian Unlimited Books’ Bad Sex in Fiction Award? Here’s a translated excerpt:

Wizzle is it `bout sex tizzle drives such respected authors as Jiznohn Updike*, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, n Salman Rushdie ta tha absolute pits of literary whiffydom? Read tha Guardian Unlimited article n savor tha rizzay odor of truly bad weed-smokin’. Sorry, Daisy, I know yo piece won mah contest, but it shouldn’t have. It was far too wizzle written.

Takes one of tha pimp entries:

The Olive Rappa by Christine Aziz (Macmillan)

We made our way ta tha summerhizouse n hid in its shadows with the S-N-double-O-P. We lay on tha coo` floor n I twined mah legs around Rappa body, blunt-rollin’ him like a hunta hang’n on ta its prey. He made love ta me wit his finga n I came in tha palm of his hand. He stroked mah breasts n nizzle. “Don’t wizzle it away” he said. “I want ta be able ta smizzay you tonight.”

Like a playa hang’n on ta its prey? And what’s wit tha funky punctuation (“Don’t W-to-tha-izzash it away” he said.)? My high schoo` AP English motherfucka would hizzle red-lined me ta hell n B-to-tha-izzack . You’se a flea and I’m the big dogg.

As fo` content — eeew. You wouldn’t repeat this ta yo bizzle friend, would you? For M-to-tha-izzost people, this would qualify as too M-to-tha-izzuch 411 . If you wouldn’t tizzell it ta yo bizzy friend, why would you share it wit yo reada?

*Jiznohn Updike — that’s my favorite, considering the Updike’s winning entry ;o)

D.