I Give Up

Ok, seriously, stop hitting me in the nuts.

I don’t know what I have done to offend the world. Whatever it is I offer this very sincere and meaningful apology so that you can stop hitting me in the nuts.

I have taken great strides my entire life to protect that region of Hossness. I wear boxer shorts, I wore cups and I flinch at even the slightest provocation that my jumbles will be hit. But I can see that the world has found a way past my defenses and I am begging everyone to make this stop. Look, I lose. Ok, I get it. You win. Please stop hitting the boys.

A couple of days ago my daughter was playing in front of me. I wasn’t thinking anything about it, she does this all the time. And then, unprovoked I might add, she turned around and using her little carnie hand she smacked me right in the balls. You wouldn’t think that a 21 month old could cause such damage. But that’s the thing about those boys, even the slightest graze can send you into a tailspin of lower stomach pain. In Little Hoss’s case she proved that her aim was true and practically palmed the right one.

I went down immediately begging for mercy from my little girl. Why? Why? And Why again I ask you! Why must Daddy’s balls be a form of enjoyment for the entire family? Why must I be rolling around on the ground like a wounded deer (reference there for my redneck hunting fans) as she circles me looking for the last killer blow? Why must God find it funny to put this most sensitive area in a most unprotected spot? And why, god why, does my daughter think it’s funny when she does this?

Which has led me to my next parenting conclusion: I will never buy still toed boots for my daughter. Ever. You can guess why. I should write a book called What not to buy for your Daughter if you are a Dad. The top two things would be steel toed boots and a piercing of any shape or form, any where on her body. Yes, I don’t care if I have tattoos. I’m a parent now, I’m allowed to be a hypocrite, screw off.

And to my dogs. Seriously, if one of you fat dumb son of bitches decides that you want to chase the fat dumb son of a bitch cat and you think that my crotch region is the best route, I am going to kick you. Fine, send Peta my way, I’ll kick them too. Because there isn’t a man on the planet that would not understand it. I know that normally I’m a laid back guy and that we wrestle a lot but you don’t see me grabbing your stones and giving them a twist, do you?

I have not nurtured my dog out of a show of respect for his family jewels. That respect is quickly dwindling and I swear to all that is holy that if you plant your big paw on my balls again, I’m going straight to the vet and telling him to just use the old rubber band trick (another reference for my red neck readers).

But don’t think the cats are getting off easy hear. Because if they decide that they want to skidadle away using my junk as starter’s blocks I swear to God I’m going to throw them in a sack and then into the river it goes. I’m not all that far from the Rio Grande, it’s about a days trip from where I live. And yes, I would make that trip just to pitch the sack in, me and my aching balls.

Bubba Hoss, you should just know better. Really man, you are my son and you should just really know better. But I’ll take a little of the blame here but over all, son, you should know better. I was in the bathroom when you decided to have a melt down. Your scream was louder than normal so I thought maybe something had happened while you were sleeping in your swing chair. I have no idea what, maybe alien abduction, I suppose it’s possible.

But because of this scream I tried to hurry up and ended up catching myself in my zipper. Do you have any idea how freaking bad that hurts??? And crawling on all fours to get to your rescue and it turns out that the Backyardigans show had stopped and we all know how much you love the Backyardigans. That’s why your scream was so loud, your show was over. Seriously man, you should know better.

Do you have any idea what this feels like? Well, one day you will. And inside Daddy is going to say “Hurts, don’t it”. Then I’m going to turn on the Backyardigans and watch it by myself.

Finally, Hossmom, you have actually been doing pretty well and have not let your flailing at night hit me in the balls in several months. Hey, I appreciate that, I really do. In fact, I’m going to take you out to a movie because I appreciate that so much. I’ll arrange for a sitter and we’ll just lock the animals outside for a couple of hours, no problems. That’s what I really like in a wife, not hitting my balls more than 4 or 5 times a year.

To the rest of the world, I give up. Whatever it is that you want from me, you have it. I’m done, I’m broken. You have taken my spirit and snapped it, I hope that you are proud of yourself.

To anyone that is thinking about having a vasectomy once they have kids and a couple of dogs, I say wait a little while. Nature has a way of taking care of this for you.