inflate your scrotum today because it's fun.

a moth died on my crotch today.

i don't think the poor bugger smashed its brains out plunging headlong into where the sun or moon or whatever other sort of luminescence have you don't shine, but that my and my groin's being there were merely conincidental. perhaps i just happened to be there when the end of the dragon's final flight across the waves reached fruition. cos it's not as if my nether regions harboured the rod in its flaming, undulated glowing state; i was watching basketball at that time, after all. and doesn't the object of everyone's desire in that context resemble an inflated scrotum of a member of the elephantiasis 'r' us club.

speaking of ball games. it's fucked up how the games, when pushed for their complete descriptions, simply sound anything from absurd to ludicrous. look, let's take basketball. 5 black motherfuckers toss an inflated scrotum amongst themselves. suddenly 5 other motherfuckers, this time pasty whites, get into the fray and the tossing takes place among all 10. the pasties can toss the scrotum from afar into a hole almost as small as their 'ball' with a decent degree of accuracy, but the negroes caught on the hole business and, ruminating on the sheer inefficiency of it all, decide to just shorten the tossing distance to virtually nothing by merely dropping the ball into the hole. they fall to arguing and pushing among themselves and someone wearing a ridiculous striped shirt, standing nearby, barred from the game cos of bad looks, acts like he's the king of the world and proclaims, due to bigotry, the blacks winners. of course he gets creamed but the black motherfuckers like what they hear and they successfully intimidate the whites with the superior size of their chests and by accusing them of being exploitative communists. the mediator takes the flare out of his left ear and we have basketball. expand both the hole and the number of rednecks with lots more running leading to lots more foam escaping said rednecks' mouths, double the referee's bad looks, top it off with a perverse prejudice against hands, and voila! - hockey (ok ok so it's football).

and people actually get paid for moving balls around! fuckloads, in fact! tell anyone you wanna engage in the highly technical job of a cake decorator (this actually is meant to be the ideal job for me when i took some psychology test back in uniformed school. you know, the kind that describes in detail who you are, the level of your sensitivity, what time you go to bed, your masturbation frequency, etc., all in, like, 3 questions pertaining directly to neither of the above information) and you'll get laughed out of town. but inform your parents of your uncontrollable urges to apply your boot liberally to spheroids and you'll probably get tears of pride.

i played football today.