Hot Balls

I figured something out last night. Ever wondered what it's like to have the kind of STD that burns your ball sac?

I made a favorite meal of Lauren's last night, in celebration of Valentine's Day. Included in this raw tuna salad is one chopped jalapeno pepper, seeded. I seeded the damn pepper with my bare fingers, chopped the shit, and put it in the salad. I then mixed up the rest of the dish, set it in the fridge to marinate, and proceeded to the lavatory to pee.

No sooner than when I was shaking out the last drops did I realize what I had done. Bare balls are NO PLACE for jalapeno hands. I started to feel the burn and immediately I dampened a towel and patted myself down, desperately trying to remove the hot seed residue from the base of my shaft and balls. It was an act of futility. The next half hour of my life was some of the worst elapsed time that I ever hope to encounter. Being that it was Valentine's Day and all, I had planned on grabbing some wine before I served dinner...so I had to deal with this shit at the liquor store. At one point, the woman behind the counter asked me if I needed anything and I was ok. I nodded as I grimaced in pain and tried ever so desperately not to scream "my fucking balls are on FIRE!!!!"

Misery. Absolute misery. I also liken the experience to having fire ants in your pants. I haven't had this pleasantry thusfar in my life, but I have had those fuckers between my toes before. Same deal as the jalapeno. In fact, it's almost as if a fire ant is simply a regular old ant that lives, eats and breathes inside a jalapeno.

At least it's Friday. But I came to another realization this morning, pertaining to men's room etiquette/usage/expectations. Let me begin by stating that I will no longer venture into the men's room here before 11am on a Friday morning.

In corporate Boston, particularly in the whole recruiting/headhunting circle, there exists a particularly social fabric within every organization. Here at Hollister it's no different, as plenty of men and women venture out to the bars on a regular basis. Much like college, Thursday night is THE night to go out and libate oneself until the point of vertigo. What does this mean for the men's room on a Friday morning? It means that you can be pretty damn certain that you'll encounter max occupancy at any time between 8am and 11am as the social crowd of men proceed to engage in their weekly rectal exodus. And make no mistake about it, they're not in there for any other reason than to feel the literal burn from the Budweiser they consumed the night before. And the eventual 2am sausage they inhaled before retiring to some bed/couch/floor. Whatever, it's fine. My aggrevation with the whole situation is little price to pay for the satisfaction of knowing that these drunks are going to have trouble sitting down for the next three hours or so.

Please, enjoy your long weekend. Not only is it a celebration of Presidents, but it's also the best time of the year to buy a car. Once again, I'll close with a suggestion for Gilbert:

Dude, buy that expression of masculinity that you call a truck. Enough deliberating. Give me a call if you want to chop some wood later. Or maybe if you want to shoot some stuff.