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Dear
gentleman blow-drying his balls in the gym locker room,
You're
actually doing it. I mean, we've all dreamt of blow-drying our balls
out in the open, but you're actually doing it in front of me and at
least sixteen other people that just finished exercising at this pricey
sports club. Some of us will do it in private in our homes, or in a
hotel room using a hairdryer a stranger might have just used to style
their hair for that big business meeting in Denver. But not you. You
are not confined to such social norms, norms that usually keep
flapping, flag-like balls out of my eyes.
Does the
courage to do this in public come with age? Perhaps it's
something a young man like me can't understand. But you, you are on in
years; gray and spotted like a ham in a paintball fight. Your scrotum
reminds me of boardwalk taffy. Maybe you've been building up to this
day your whole life and I'm witnessing the birth of a phoenix. You are
no longer a man that blow-dries his balls in secret. You have
transcended that station and now fall into an elite group of Spartans
that blow-dry their balls wherever they God damn please. If
caterpillars emerged from their cocoons as butterflies with heavy,
sagging testicles I'd imagine they'd feel the same as you might right
now.
Maybe you're making
up for the fact that you no longer have any hair on your head that
requires blow-drying. Is grabbing a hairdryer a rote, preening response
from your earlier years when you and your majestic mane would say
things like, "bees knees" to fresh-faced nurses at the pool hall while
discussing the Teapot Dome scandal? Did they have hairdryers back then?
I think my ability to correctly recall history is being affected by the
sight of your twin sperm fountains. [continued]
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