I’ve never been a fan of doctors. They cut you, jab you with needles and sooner or later bring you really fucking bad news. Doctors, seemingly able to smell the fear leaking from my pores, are always a bit unsettled by my decidedly manic presence in their examination room. Naturally, I wasn’t psyched when one evening, having just hosed myself down in my bi-yearly bathing ritual, complete with shaved donkey and a dead Jesuit, I found a lump. A big one.
Not a fun experience, especially considering it’s location. Ladies and gentleman, I had a large growth in my balls. That’s right, swimming around in there like a third testicle was this big fucking thing that I’d not noticed before and after the initial pride and excitement of thinking I’d been so manly as to grow more balls, I freaked the fuck out in true wing-nut, triple-ball fashion and started wondering if I was going take an extended appointment in that tanning salon called Hell a lot sooner than I’d previously thought.

It took a few days before I could get to a doctor, so to kill time I ran through various worst-case scenarios in my mind. Assuming I’m completely fucking headed straight to toast-land, I should probably bite the ball-gag and ride that bull straight into the fucking ground. How I should do this was a big question of my mind and I managed to come up with a few viable options:

1. Grab my gun and start shooting. When I run out of targets, find more. Get shot. Die.
2. Grab my gun and start shooting people I dislike. When I run out of targets, find people I have mild distaste for. Get shot. Die.
3. Get shot. Die
4. Do a King Kong. Grab the nearest blond starlet, climb the Empire State Building. Stand on top, bellowing and beating my chest. Get shot. Die.
5. Find Jesus. Turn my life around and spend my time righting all the wrongs I have done. As soon as people start believing me, start shooting them. Get shot. Die.

Of course, you must understand that I didn’t want to do any of this at all. Shit, I wanted to be free. I wanted to run naked with the bulls of Pamplona. How can I be Pope someday when I’m dead? Fuck that noise!

(more…)

Big Jim writes:

Q:

Dear Daveb,

Is the Dalai Lama really His Holiness? And if so where does Jesus fit into the equation?

Confused in Alabama,

Mickey

A: Well, I suppose it depends on your definition of holiness. Are we talking cloud-parting, white light, chorus-singing, levitation holy or are we talking about self-flagellating, camel-hair sack wearing, bend-the-altar-boy-over, locust-eating holy? In either case…no, His Lama-ness is neither, but I guess if he had to be one of the two, I feel certain that he’d choose the first category.

But let’s forget that and focus on the jist of your question, which I’m guessing is something along the lines of, “Who’s spiritual nutsack carries more weight?”

I’m not a religious person in the slightest, but being the genius I am, I certainly feel qualified to answer. Listen up and take notes if you have to, because I’ll tell you right now, soldier… Jesus’s nuts hang mighty fucking low.

Nice guy that he is, Lama-dude’s shriveled little love-raisins cannot hold a candle to the sheer, sweaty God-bomb that is the nutsack of Christ. Jesus wears his robes for an actual purpose — to cover his nuts. He’d just bust a hole in his jeans otherwise.

China busted into Tibet and what did the Dalai Lama do? He sucked his balls into his body cavity and high-tailed it to India. When the Romans arrested Jesus, he didn’t bitch out. He was like “I am what I am” and they nailed his ass to a hunk of wood and that gnarly motherfucker took it like a pro.

Jesus would crush the Dalai Lama with his balls. Know this. He’d bitch slap his ass into next Tuesday. He’d get him into his signature Holy Trinity Headlock and shit would be over and done and Jesus would go off and bang the corpse of Mother Theresa just because he’s cold like that. For real. Holes in his hands and everything.

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