september 18, 2002

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Poetry/Fiction/Essays/etc.

Small Balls

Bryan Johnson
OP Contributor

 

(A Conversation: University of Guelph South Residence, a.k.a. “The Zoo”; January 13, 8:31p.m., 2002.)

H: “How can you sit like that?”

M: “How can I sit like what?”

H: “Like that...with your legs crossed...like that?”
M: “Just exactly like this, with my legs crossed.”

H: “But what do you do with your balls?”

M: “What do you mean, “What do I do with my balls?” What the hell do you think I do with my
balls?”

H: “Well, where are they?”

M: “Where do you think they are? They're in my fucking scrotum. Where else would they
be...in my pocket?”

H: “Of course, but...where’s your scrotum?”

M: “Jesus, would you get to the point!”

H: “Well, when you sit like that, with your legs crossed so tightly, how come you don’t squeeze
your balls? I can’t sit like that.”

M: “What on earth...well, Christ, I don’t know; they’re here, under here, hanging down below
my legs, so they don’t get squeezed. Isn’t that what scrotums are for?”

H: “I don’t know. But I can’t do that. I can’t sit like that. Maybe you have small balls or
something.”

M: “No, I do not have small balls ‘or something.’ I'll tell you why you can’t sit like this: it’s

because you have a small scrotum ‘or something.’ I’ve seen you jocks in the change room
and you've all got tiny little bags. It’s all that jumping and tackling and butt-slapping: all
those shocks make your balls retract up tight to your body, permanently, hanging on for
their dear fucking lives, and that’s why you've got a tiny little scrotum, dig. Your balls are
afraid to hang down is all.”

H: “What on earth are you going on about?”

M: “Small scrotums, that’s what! Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

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