Cup Check

I was working out the other day and I dropped a 12.5 lb medicine ball on my nutsack. As soon as it landed, I began to contemplate the irony of the ball’s name.

The purpose the ball served at that point could not be any further from medicinal. No doctors have ever advocate what I had done as a healthy practice. 4 out of 5 doctors agree that putting your balls in a vice prevents osteoporosis.

Medicine ball? More like Preemptively-Assassinate-Any-Potential-Little-Mike’s Ball.

When I used it to work out, the threat of a nut-crushing was always in the back of the mind. That’s where it always stayed; I never really believed I’d drop something that heavy on my merchandise. I always knew that I had it in me, though. As soon as I bought it, I thought to myself, “Man…I’m sure this will get me in shape, but I definitely should avoid having it hang precipitously over my balls.” I knew it would be awful, and it was. I writhed around in pain for like, 10 solid minutes. I was like Vader after he chucked Palpatine into the Death Star reactor core.

After the initial shock cleared, an indescribable haze of pain washed over me. I seriously thought I might have crushed the left one. What would happen after that? Could the doctors get it back? Do I get a replacement? And I was afraid to check it out. Do you have any idea how nerve-wracking it is to know that your ball has been hurt, but being unable to check out its status based on your own dread for the worst?

My body was frozen with fear at the thought of having one ball. I understand that you only need one, and that I’d be cool to live my life, but I got scared thinking of all the procedures I’d have to go through to make sure everything is okay down there. Maybe I go into the doctor’s office and they give me the grim news: “We’ve never seen anything like this before. You’re going to have to see a ball specialist.” That sounds horrible. I don’t want to go to Dr. Bill Hancock’s Testetorium. Pictures of all kinds of pouches and sacks hanging up on the walls. Then I have to undergo a procedure so heinous and painful that they play videos of 9/11 footage just to lighten my mood.

And you know what else sucks? It still hurts. A day later, I’m still worried about my balls. Forget about the physical pain. How are my balls supposed to carry themselves with any kind of self-esteem? They’ve been humiliated. I feel like I’m my balls’ Dad, and some bully pounded on them at school. I don’t know what to do. I want the medicine ball to be punished, but at the same time, I want my balls to fight their own fight.

The only satisfying conclusion to this whole fiasco would be if my balls got up in the middle of the night, dragged me and my whole body out to the living room where the medicine ball is, and kicked the living shit out of it.

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