6 Horrifying Reasons I Will Never Manscape Again by Jeff Terry In the Powder Room

6 Horrifying Reasons I’ll Never Manscape Again

You can only shave your balls so many times before something goes horribly wrong. For me, that number was twice. The first time was for my vasectomy. The second time was because I was feeling sassy.

I shaved after my morning shower when my pores were gaping and the hair was limp. Then I recklessly went about my day like my package wasn’t planning a mighty revenge.

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I took my kids swimming. All day, my shorn, impotent balls floated in communal water. They slapped against my thighs at every dive. They soaked up pool chemicals and stranger DNA.

I had no idea what they were planning. Also, I got distracted because a wasp stung me in the face. Right under my eye. I was sure that I would die from the wasp poison in front of my horrified children, but that didn’t happen. I just wiped out the nearby wasp’s nest—killing the offending wasp and every wasp it knew—then put my balls back in the water. And that was the extent of it.

The next morning, I woke up with three testicles. Except the third one was no testicle. It blinked up at me. Like the Eye of Sauron, only where the sac met the rod.

I had no idea what it was, but I instantly knew it meant that doctors would have to cut off my johnson. I decided the best course of action was to “keep my eye on it,” meaning “ignore it while at the same time obsessing over it.”

As the days passed, I took the time to develop several theories about what my new body accessory meant for my physical and mental well-being. Each theory was more brutal and devastating than the one before:

1. Cancer. Cancer—my go-to option for every new bump and growth. And either way it would be terminal, because if they wanted to cut off my dick to save my life, they’d have to kill me first.

2. Blowback from my vasectomy. Somehow the urologist must have fucked up, leaving me with a build-up of sperm that couldn’t find its way out of the happy hole. A civilization of unborn Jeffs was forming, and eventually, they would burst through. The docs would have no choice but to chop my dick off.

3. Supercancer. Like cancer, only more cancerous. The diagnosis always turns to supercancer when I’ve been ignoring my self-diagnosis of cancer for too long. Treatment: dick, legs, and torso all have to come off.

4. Hernia. It made sense for a sexual athlete like myself. When you’re racing for the finish line, you sometimes pull a muscle. A huge porn-quality muscle. I’d need surgery to remove the hernia. And the dick.

5. Flesh-eating bacteria. There had obviously been bacteria in the pool, and it swam up in my business for a seat at the 24/7 Jeff Buffet. Bye bye, dick and everything else!

6. Pulsing sac of wasp babies. This was the big “DUH” moment for me. It only made sense. All of the sense. When the wasp stung my face, it didn’t shoot venom—it shot eggs, which then swam through my bloodstream and ended up in my junk. Soon a platoon of wasps would mature, erupt from my balls, and sting the shit out of my face, sending fresh eggs into my bloodstream and perpetuating a cycle of destruction that would only end with my dick chopped the hell off.

These diagnoses percolated for a week as the thing grew and tested the elasticity of my nuts. Eventually, I needed to get a professional involved. I called my primary care physician and made an appointment.

He looked at the Eye of Sauron and said: “Yes. Wasp babies. I’ve seen this a million times. It’s gonna hurt so bad. And it’s totally fatal. Glad I’m not you!”

“WHAT?”

“I said it’s a ‘fur uncle.’ I’ll write you a scrip for a topical antibiotic. Call me in two weeks if it hasn’t gone away. Now get the fuck out of my exam room.”

A fur uncle? WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?

I’ve had all kinds of crazy uncles. I’ve had the Don’t Pick at It Uncle. I’ve had the Snowblowers Eat Fingers Uncle. I’ve even had the Horses Will Straight Up Rip Your Dick Off Uncle. But I’ve never had a Fur Uncle.

So I looked it up. It’s actually a “furuncle,” otherwise known as a common boil. And it’s a whole lot lamer than wasp babies.

Whatevs.

[Tweet “His POV: 6 Horrifying Reasons I’ll Never Manscape Again!” by @jeffingoff]

This original piece by Jeff Terry was written exclusively for In the Powder Rooma division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Feature image © StudioStoks via depositphotos.com. 

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Jeff tries to hide from his problems by focusing intently on them at Jeffandjillwentupthehill.com. He lives close enough to Chicago to claim that he lives in Chicago with his wife Jill and their three kids. He writes to make himself laugh. His goal is to provide the finest nothing on the Internet. He hopes you visit and enjoy a braincation. Whatever that is. Connect with him on Twitter @jeffingoff and on Facebook.

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  1. says

    Jesus, man! When the balls are involved, you see the doctor right away!! That fur uncle could have been that super cancer or whatever for god’s sake! Was it caused by the manscaping? WTF? I shaved twice as well, for the same reasons that you did! How weird and creepy and gross is that? I find it strange that men shave themselves down there. Men are hairy and gross and hairy! Leave it be. I’m just rambling now, so I’ll stop.

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