100 Below: Volume 42

I used to own a cat that loved my balls. I’d be sitting in front of the computer, nude, and the cat would saunter in, sight my scrotum dangling over the edge of the chair, then start playfully batting at it. The swinging motion excited the cat, and what started off as a genteel game of tetherballs would quickly degenerate into a bloody, caterwauling session of shredderballs, the cat yowling like a knife-wielding Bruce Lee going postal on a speedbag.

I found this scrote-raking experience quite character-building. It taught me stoicism. And chicks dug the thick, twisted scar tissue.


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