Maybe My Balls Are On Tour With Lady GaGa

I recently proclaimed the following about the possibility of my fiancée going to a Lady GaGa concert for her bachelorette party:

“I am so jealous.”

I have to go make sure Lady GaGa doesn’t sew my balls into her costume.

Tech Support Took My Balls

There's a program at work I need to log into maybe once a week. Last week it forced me to change my password...and this week I forgot what it was. With no luck finding it written down somewhere, I wrote an email to Mat, one of those weaselly tech support guys who thinks he's better than anybody who owns just one computer.

Unfortunately, my balls decided to leave me before writing the email, and out spewed the following, spineless, self-deprecating email:

Mat,

When I changed my password last week, I had little foresight and did not save it in my browser, and stupidly did not write it down anywhere. Since I have so many passwords, my tiny brain couldn’t keep this one contained. I know, I’m a moron, and shouldn’t be allowed near a computer. I know you are very important, very busy, and have 10 computers going at once, but if you can spare a minute of your hectic day, could you send me my password? I am so sorry for causing this inconvenience.

OK, so it didn’t have those exact words, but it was close. If I still had my balls, I would’ve simply said this:

Mat ,
Could you please send me my password?
Thanks.

Or:

Mat – I need my password ASAP.

Or even:

Mat…drank too much this weekend…forgot my password.
Thanks bro!

Or:

Mat,
Wild weekend…lost my wallet at a donkey show in Mexico. My password was in there.

Groomzilla

I’m pretty sure my balls are hanging out at the bridal shop. My controlling ways have gotten me in trouble again. Somehow, I’ve ended up being way more involved in planning our wedding than most men care to be, and the other day I ended up yelling at my fiancee, “Do you even want to get married?”

The details are not important. What is important is that I hop on my pink Hannah Montana-branded bicycle, ride over to the bridal shop, and pick up my balls! I’m off...

This Time I Mean It

In the last couple of years, I have located my balls on occasion, even keeping them for months at a time. I've become so attached to them, I proposed to my lady on New Year's Day, and we're getting married this August.

One may ask, "Are you worried about losing your balls once you get married?" And I would tell one that I'm well aware of the stereotype that men lose their balls after marriage, but I am proud to say I lost my balls years before meeting my future wife...and found them...lost them...and found them again. I now know that keeping track of my balls will be a lifelong battle, whether I'm married or not. I'm not too naive to think that getting married again won’t have an impact on my balls, but I'm going to fight through it like I always have and keep reattaching those things. After all, the alternative is giving up, and letting my balls escape forever into the wild, and I'm positive they would not survived on their own.

Here's a photo of Art Garfunkel.
He's been married twice and has expressed regret in not marrying a third woman.

This Blog Sucks

I'm sorry this blog sucks lately. The search for my balls has gone very well and I'm 99% sure I've found them, and that is the reason this blog sucks. But I am going to try to change that, so check back.
Here's an awful drawing of the touching reunion between me and my balls...