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THE STORY OF THE MONTH"Family Matters" or "Is That A Loaded Gun In Your Pants or Are You Just Happy to See Me?" by Mike Magnum July, 2002 Folks, no matter how tough or macho or manly you want to LOOK, never, and I repeat, NEVER put a loaded weapon in your pants. Let me point you to stories sent to me by our feckless readers: "Man shoots off his testicle while driving" and "Gun Goes Off In Trousers, Wounding Toledo Man" OUCH, OUCH, OUCH! Paaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnful mistakes. Holy penis in a cast, this is serious folks! And I thought flashbacks to slipping off the bicycle seat were rough. Imagine having to relive the "How I shot my balls" story every time your in-laws want to know why you can't make them any grandkids? Which brings me to a story about my childhood scrotum. I hope it doesn't make you testes, I mean, testy. Crossing a chain link fence in my backyard, my shoe slipped and I nearly fell. But, falling would have been better. See, this was no casual chain link fence. It was the version with the little V-shaped spikes on the top, designed to thwart poop-filled birds and small children with old, rather non-pointy shoes. So, while I did catch myself from falling, I also dropped far enough for a V-shaped spike to pierce my shorts, cut through my underwear, and halt at the point of puncturing a testicle. Like the criminal whose neck feels the tip of Dirty Harry's .44 Magnum, I had the unmistakable sensation of pointy barbs on wrinkly flesh, while the summer afternoon winds whispered, "Go ahead, make my day." True story. Slowly I regained composure and solidified my footing. Then, as if instructed by a Rodney Yee yoga DVD, I ever-so-gently and slower than molasses in winter, raised my body and maneuvered the spikes from my shorts. When I finally hit the ground, what seemed like hours later, my testicles and I breathed a sigh of relief. We walked away knowing we saved my future brood from the horrible fate of a chain link death. I tell you this story not to regale you with my youthful journeys, but to explain just how precious, at the spry young age of eight, I deemed my scrotum. I knew, even then, that should I ever decide to propagate and pass on my genetic design, my balls would play a slightly important role in seeing that process come to fruition. Which leads me to the simple question: Why on God's green earth would anyone stick a LOADED GUN IN THEIR PANTS? Look folks, how are we going to make the next generation of NRA members if you keep shooting them in their little semen heads, er, tails? Take that message and share it with your family. Tell them how you weren't dumb enough to shoot off your genitals before they were born. If you're one of the two guys in the stories above, well, let's hope they let you adopt. That's all I have for today. I need to breathe. This column hurts to write. I'll leave you with this simple, easily remembered message: Don't shoot your crotch, it's the only one you've got. |
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