Our next excursion takes us into the heart of the sports world. Thursday nights, I play racquetball with the guys. Purely recreational, but you’d hardly know it watching us try to kill each other. You see, we’ve invented a new version of the sport – quicker, more difficult, and deadlier. Although we escaped with few serious injuries this particular evening, one of us was not quite so lucky a few weeks back.
On that fateful evening, our friend, who shall remain nameless, got struck full-force directly in the man candy.
The ball didn’t bounce first. The ball’s trajectory went like this: racquet – straight line at mach three – nubblies.
And our poor, wretched friend went down like lead in champagne (you’ve never seen that?), accompanied by a pathetic, grotesque yell-moan.
And I was like : “oooooooOOOOHHHHH!” when I saw him go down.
Motionless. Hands covered mouths. Silence.
My poor friend who did the ball smacking (the racquetball and the other ones) was visibly shaken. No man wants to be the smacker. But I can tell you that any smacker would surely rather be a smacker than a smackee.
Because getting smacked in the jujubes is something that no man should ever experience. Women say that childbirth is the greatest pain known to man. But how can that be? No man knows childbirth. But some men know berrysmacks, unfortunately.
I happen to be a member of the bruised winkie club, and I think the experience is akin to pulling your entrails out through your mouth with a rusty fork, while a mime enacts
Needless to say, I wear a cup while playing our brand of racquetball.
Still, there are two things that I just don't get:
1)Why do women insist they understand the language of pain better than men? They say we have no idea what they go through during childbirth, but they’ve never been jabbed in the happy buttons.
2)Perhaps my translation of the actual phenomenon doesn't do it justice.
Can you help me translate?