The Truth Behind Killer's Balls

Liz is still gone, and I had several requests to really let me balls hang out.

You asked for it.

Killer's top ball facts:

I don't really know when my balls became my unofficial theme. I think I made a few off hand comments and someone commented, "You talk about your balls a lot." So then it became a challenge, and then it snowballed. I don't discuss them much in real life.

The Environmental Protection Agency has listed my balls as Protected Marshlands. Apparently there is a rare species of Albino Cave Crab that has made it's home down there.

I was going to wax them recently but some hippies chained themselves to my balls, in the back near my ass crack, to protect the Albino Cave Crab habitat. I had trouble sleeping, because they kept singing and beating bongos all night.

I rub expensive facial creams and sleep with a mud mask on my balls to prevent wrinkles.

I like to lay naked outside in the early morning, because when the sun rises over my balls the views are magnificent. The crabs enjoy it also.

My balls have contemplated moving several times because they hate their neighbors. One is a dick and the other is an asshole.

There are legends that in the deepest foliage on my balls a small flower grows that can cure cancer. A few years back a team of scientists went in to find it. Only one returned and he has never spoken since.

Gender Bending Part 1

There's been a suspicious rumor lurking about that Killer and Liz may be the same person. I can tell you that this is speculation only. We are both very real. We both like travel and garlic. We both want to do more traveling and more beer drinking than we are currently doing. One of us is nice to old people and animals and is probably going to Heaven.


This theory has prompted me to think about what it would be like to chronicle a day in Killer's shoes; a day totally from his vantage point. I fully expect him to assume the role of Liz in an upcoming post. I'd love to know how he THINKS I spend my time and what he thinks are my priorities.


Doing this was harder than you think. I can assure you, this won't be pretty.


Liz writes, like she was Killer:



I'm writing from work, which finally got Internet access about 3 months ago. Unfortunately I have to blog from my laptop in patients' rooms. This proves to be difficult because most of the plugs are used for I.V.'s and life support equipment. Those machines have a 30-minute battery storage, so if I make this post quick, Mr. Garland should be OK. If not, he's been in a coma for over 8 months. Maybe it's time for a push from the nest.


Being a nurse on the floor where many non-responsive patients reside can get boring. I've already inserted a catheter just to see if it will make my life more convenient. So far, it hasn't. I think it will come in handy later tonight though when I ask Nurse Jill is she wants to touch "my sack" and then point to the bag. She has to do it. It's part of the nursing code of ethics.

My best friend, Clib, is an artist. I'm always around paint and brushes and sketch pads when I'm at his house. Since we're about to be in the same town again, Mrs. Clib is going to go crazy when I start using Clib's art supplies. I've already used my body as a canvas (see Ass Flowers in BEST OF). Now I'm planning to create a series of "Balls dipped in paint". I'm taking "Paint Ball" in a whole new direction. Those will be my handcrafted Christmas gifts this year. Since I have 3 testicles, I may turn all of the prints into smiley faces. Something with a button nose. After all, it's the holiday. I need to be thinking of the children.

Because of my new found dedication to fitness I have been avoiding fast food. Yesterday I broke down and went to Wendy's for dinner. I was walking in when I heard, "Would you like fries with that shake?" I turned around and saw a group of college girls approaching me. I knew I was looking good, but I didn't know I was looking that good. Immediately I hatched a plan. Since it involved a 5-way, I'll spare the details. Immediately my plan was foiled as I realized it was the drive-thru speaker. What are the chances that that would actually happen to someone?

My co-blogger Liz will be leaving next weekend for Italy. I know where she hides the spare key. I'm thinking about collecting all the stray cats I can round up and putting them in her house. At the rate that cats multiply, her home will be overrun by the time she gets back. I'll leave an anonymous tip with the freaks at PETA. This might make her angry, and I may have to pay with one of my nads, but I think it would be worth it.

I think my penis just farted. There is some sort of gas bubble sitting inside my catheter bag. Finally! My dream of finding new ways to expel gas is complete. My quest for world domination is only one task away. All I need is some Shea butter, a mechanical pencil, and Bob Barker.

It's been 46 minutes. I'd better plug the heart monitor back in before Nurse 2 figures out what's going on.

Oh! I almost forgot! Mooseknuckle!

Love Letter

One of the motivators for me starting a blog was the feedback I would receive from Chad about the bizarre and random rants I often sent to him as emails. I don't know why I would send these emails to Chad, but I would do so every few months, and pretty much only to Chad. He even told me he would print them out occasionally and show them to friends. That made me realize, maybe other people would read random observations about my balls. I wish he had kept a few, because sometimes it is hard to think of new things to say.

I wrote Chad an email at work, sent it, and then began to put together a post for the night. I was perturbed that I used my only ideas on his email. As a lazy mastermind, I saw the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, so I am posting Chad's email.

Yes, it is homo-erotic. I believe I have previously mentioned my strange group of friend's strange sense of humor. To us that is funny, and when it makes Clib's wife nervous, that is even funnier.

So, you never responded to my last email, but neither did Bamela, so I guess
that makes both of you suck my nuts equally.

No real point to this
email. I am just bored at work and decided to see how you are doing. I am STILL
working everyday, working out everyday, and nothing else. I have six weeks left
before utter freedom and sheer blissful nothingness.

I hope the
Taiwanese are treating you well. It is nice that you are taking such care to
educate them before the Chinese drop a nuke and drag their tiny island back into
the communist fold.

I am not sure when you arrive in the States, but
hopefully you get all that Brady family shit out of your system because once I
hit town, it is going to be 24/7 Killer loving for you. Disco and I are pumped
about the concert in Memphis. I am trying to pull off a couple of days there for
us (and since neither of us will be otherwise occupied, I don't see any reason
to not have such). One night will be spent watching the Simpsons Movie which
opens that weekend, and at least one night should be spent getting shitty
downtown with a group of hot honeys I used to work with at the hospital. Maybe
by some freak occurrence even Sherm will show up. You remember Sherm don't you? No, you
probably don't.

I can not wait to do nothing. I want to sit in small
village in a third world country, under the awning of a tiny bar, drinking San
Miguel, and watching the rain fall. Preferably this can be accomplished with you
there under the table licking my junk, but if not, at least you could be sitting
beside me, dreaming of licking my junk, but too shy to ask.

We will most
definitely have to plan several nights of drinking, card playing and farting at
Liz's. Clib will be in town by then, so it will be a madhouse. You can take
advantage of Liz, I can do one of her twenty cats, and Clib can draw pretty
pictures of the debauchery. I would suggest you get Liz really drunk to better
take advantage of her, but we both know nobody can out drink Liz.

Yours
in Heterosexual Man Love
Killer

blue balls

Liz relays this, but with respect... and a need for verification.

I had a friend recently tell me that when he uses a toilet that has "blue" water in it, he has to hold his balls up or else they get wet and stain his underwear when he pulls it back on. Was he serious? He seemed serious. He said he wasn't proud. I believe his exact phrasing was, "Balls ain't shit." He referred to it as elephantitus of the nads- which I don't think is a medical term, more a method for explaining his condition. There was another guy present that verified his huge nuts. His wife has made reference to the size of his boys as well. But can they REALLY be that huge? To where they fall into the toilet water?

We had a good time talking about how his balls will only continue to droop over time. He may have to switch to briefs when he turns 40 to avoid being arrested, stared at, or called a pervert. But in the meantime, I think these nads are only a freakish inconvenience.

He's a nut anyway, but damn.

Can anyone verify that testicles can hang that low? I mean, it's like 8 inches from the seat of the toilet to the water. His balls have to be hanging at least 10 inches down to get a good soaking. I know they have to cause some sort of optical illusion when he's standing nude and his dangle, average, is hanging in the foreground of a set of Andre the Giant nads. That could, in certain circles, be a disadvantage. Is there any advantage to having enormous testes?

I checked out his crotch to see if there was a giant sack imprint, but he said he always wears baggy pants so you can't tell. His camouflage worked. Nothing appeared to me in 3-D. Not that I wish him any misfortune, but if he can donate those things to science should he pass from this World in an untimely way, I sure would like to know what the medical community has to say about his pair. And it would be extra sweet if they were that neon blue of toilet water when they pulled the sheet off of him.

Why Killer Rants.

An old friend, Farley, who is my only old friend, besides Liz, to have a blog, MEME'd me. I don't normally cotton to MEMEs. They have always seemed forced and too much like a chain letter. Now, however, I have done two back to back.

Farley stumbled into her blog by answering an ad for free lance writers, it turns out the writing gig was a wine blog. She is perfect for this due to her passion for wine and her passion for writing.

I don't read Farley's blog as often as I should. I don't like wine. So, out of love for Farley, and in memory of the charred remains of the Iron Horse Grill, where we worked, lived and drank together, I am answering the MEME call.

Seeking to find out why people take the time, effort and agony to write a blog, Farley's question, "Why does Killer rant?"

I, Killer, rant to serve notice to all the world that monotony and serious thinking will not be tolerated. I rant so some poor schlep trapped in an office building, who spends all of his days staring at the same neutral gray cubicle walls, might chance upon my pointless ravings whilst aimlessly scrolling the Internet on the company's dime.

Killer rants so that worker bee's humorless day might be brightened. After the initial post is read, the worker might think to itself, "Why the hell am supposed to care about this guys balls?" But, after reading a few more entries, hopefully the frown turns into a smirk, which then develops into a slight guffaw, and before too long the worker will find itself saying aloud, "I do, I do care about that fat, hairy bastards balls."

Making a few dozen people laugh each day, combined with the personal satisfaction of knowing those few dozen people are also subconsciously picturing me naked, is why I, Killer, rant.

This is a completely open ended MEME. I would love to hear from each and every fellow blogger about why you blog. It is not however open ended to my BBB (best blogging buddy), Liz. She MUST answer.

Pimp My Ride, Damnit!

Liz Pines for the MTV Days:

I think it's safe to say that my generation is what made MTV. I recall hours of watching videos, thinking George Michael was HOT, and working up my own dance routines to go with the songs. Remember A-Ha's Take Me On? I thought that video was mega. It was then that I decided I wanted to direct videos for a living.

Instead, I make about $150,000 less a year and rarely watch videos anymore.

I remember when Madonna revolutionized what music was and Phil Collins's videos made me like him, even though I hated everything he did except that song about feeling it coming in the air of the night... tonight... whatever. It was the Miami Vice days and you could count on Phil to have the sleeves on his padded jacked rolled and scruntched. His videos, as I recall, were often funny. Bonus points for him and Hewey Lewis and the News.

Now there are very few videos that air on MTV (the original). Everything has been replaced by shows like I Love New York (so awful), spring break stunts, Jackass (I can't watch people get hurt) and Punked. I keep my fingers crossed that someone shoots Ashton Krutcher in the face one day while they're being punked. I certainly wish Ashton the best in his endeavors, I'd just like to see how well those endeavors go when he has a prosthetic ear, cheek, and nose. Preferably made from skin from his ass. I say I can't watch people get hurt, but I am flexible about making exceptions.



I do proudly admit that I still watch some MTV. My favorite show has to be Pimp My Ride. My complaint is that MTV always selects young kids to get their rides pimped. I want my Corolla pimped too and I think I deserve it more! I have a real job and am driving a car on the verge of being a hoopty. Come on MTV, give a middle aged broad a chance!

I almost live out of may car. If I could have a massage table and big screen TV put in, some cool neon pink running lights, a V-8 engine and wireless Internet so I could blog on the go, my life would truly be complete. Here is a simulation of me driving my '02 Corolla to work:

Diego has been in a few fender benders, I may have hit an ample number of poles and backed into a couple of wayward shopping carts. There is a CHANCE that running a stop sign (accidentally, of course) caused my passenger's side headlight to hang loosely. Is it so wrong of me to want X-Hibit to show up at my house and proudly declare, "Liz, girl. You fixin' ta get the pimp put back in your 'Rolla?"

I suspect my chances of getting pimped are about the same as winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse grand prize but I do have an image of what I want firmly planted in my mind. It's something metallic and there are plenty of flames beside the wood-grain. The interior has a kick-ass sound system and a Coke fountain installed. I may not be 18 anymore, but I still want to be the coolest kid pulling up in the parking lot.

The question for today is what do YOU want pimped? And Killer, balls are unpimpable for this challenge.

Meet Mr. Killer Rants

Liz introduces you to Killer:



A large number of my friends who read this blog but have never met Killer can't wait to meet him. I've been thinking about this. He's funny and of course my friends appreciate a good laugh, but if I place myself outside of co-authoring this blog, would I want to meet a man who identifies himself so closely with his testicles? According to Killer, clothes don't make the man. Balls make the man. I guess, scientifically, this is true. Maybe that's why Killer got into the medical profession. He's smart that way.



Let me tell you a few of my observations about Killer, my nad-obsessed friend.

Killer loves a good laugh. He's funny, but I think he is equally good at appreciating funny. Our group of friends are all fairly witty people. If we were hyper competitive, we couldn't hang out. We would be in a constant struggle to be the last comic standing. Killer is especially good at cheering the guy in the spotlight on, only heckling when it's going to solicit a kind laugh. Some of us will harass at your expense. Killer doesn't do this regularly, although he is not above it by any means. You can't be a nickname giver without at least a touch of the mean gene. One of the things we have in common is our love of impropriety. When things are a little out of focus, you can count on Killer to find the humor in the discrepancies.

Killer also has a sad appreciation for bad movies. I wish I could tell you that this statement relates to his seeing the humor in every situation, but I am afraid it doesn't. He just has horrible tastes when it comes to cinematic endeavors. When the Oscars come around Killer may have seen the flicks, but he sits in confusion wondering why Bad Boys II and The Mummy Returns weren't nominated.

Killer is up for almost anything. I don't find Killer to be the initiator, I find him to be an anxious and supportive member of the crew. He will take your suggestion of going to the mall and breathe new and obscene life into it. To spend the day with Killer is to spend a day with wonderful side-tracks. And if you initiate an off-the-beaten-path adventure, he is more than willing to participate. He is not schedule driven so he's very easy to spend time with. You set the schedule, he comes up with the diversions.

Killer has his pulse on music. I do not, but wish I did. When we vacationed together a couple of years ago he burned me 4 or 5 CDs. They're awesome. Also when we vacationed together I found he shares my commitment to not getting up too early. The best things happen at midnight, not at 8 am.

He's also quite the beer connoisseur. This comes in handy when we're bar hopping. He knows enough about beer to know what I'm going to like and what I won't like. Too much hops in the brew makes it bitter to me and I don't like that. He makes sure I order something with the highest alcohol content but only a moderate level of hops. That's really thoughtful.

Finally, he knows I hate sitting in other people's farts. I think your expulsion of gas should be a special, private event not one that I have to endure. He ignores my wishes and looks for moments to poot on my couch on in the car. I hate this, but even though I hate it, I still have to love him.

I hope, that for your sake, you get the chance to meet him in person. I will also warn that if you double dog dare him to show you his balls, you're going to get a face full of hairy nads. To be as gentle as he is you must remember that for Killer, his balls are his glory.

And if he really likes you, you might get a cup of soup (fart) to go along with that face full of testicles.

Hurry home, Killer. There is a whole new group of people waiting to meet you and shake your nuts.

Fear the Wrath of My Balls!

There has been much talk here and on other blogs about desired Super Powers. A lot of ideas tossed around for what good could be accomplished and wrongs could be righted. This continued practice is one sided and unfair to the other side of that equation. I want to tell you about my desire to be an Evil Villain.

Evil Villainy seems a lot easier, and has less downsides. No constantly worrying about your loved ones. No fearing people will know your secret identity. No concern for the lives of the innocent bystander. Just simple, unadulterated evil. Just like Grandma used to make.

I don't want any traumatic experience like being scarred by acid or having my family killed by kittens to turn me into an evil, mad genius. I would prefer just to invent an evil contraption and let my internal evil that is bubbling under the surface rise up and take control of my law abiding self.

The device in question is a small cylindrical object which, when thrown against a person's head, will attach itself and allow me to control their thoughts, desires and actions. Maybe it will look like a funny hat, or a toupee, I haven't worked out all the fine details yet.

Now that the source of my evil power is out of the way, I can begin to focus on a much more important issue. My Evil Villain costume. The costume is extremely important, because my identity will be wrapped up in it, and my ability to inspire fear at my mere presence is needed. Take the Riddler from the old campy Batman TV show, he wore a skin tight spandex outfit covered in question marks. Is that frightening? It seemed more like he was portraying sexual ambiguity more than a love of baffling his foes. I don't wish to have similar problems so I have spent a great deal of time on this matter.

I want to start with some simple, black, stain resistant slacks, with double pleats. (the double pleat makes them evil) Add a stylish black V-neck sweater, with my evil chest hair protruding from the top. Toss in a pair of mid-calf leather boots and an athletic cut leather jacket, voila', instant evil genius. It is like the world's most evil Gap Ad. The piece de resistance will be the large soft leather pack that will be suspended from my waist in the front, which will contain my mind control units.

I will be able to easily reach into my sack and rapidly toss my balls at people's heads. They will be mesmerized by my quick speed and ability to fling my balls, with amazing precision, from the sack at my groin level.

Soon, thanks to my magnificent balls, the world will be mine, and everyone who comments on this post will be given a section of the world, of your choosing, in which to rule over with an iron fist. You will just be required to pledge allegiance to me and my balls, but that is a small price to pay for the love, adoration and fear of your royal subjects.

Act fast, you will either honor my balls, or wear them, the choice is yours.

My Condolences to Ray Ray's Reproductive Capabilities

Killer typing with one hand, while protecting the boys with the other

My favorite sister in the entire world, as I have been repeatedly informed of since birth, recently shared with me a very delicate piece of information. It is an undertaking her husband, my brother-in-law, and every one's favorite Cajun, Ray Ray, has allowed.

It would be unbecoming of me, not to mention an affront to my vast medical training, to discuss, in a public forum, someone else's medical maladies. However, considering the particular body parts in question, I am certain it will become clear why I, of all people, could not resist the airing of grievances.

Ray Ray had a vasectomy. He has Sacrificed his Sack, Hacked his Huevos, Allowed his Junk out of Juxtaposition, and my favorite, Made a Vast Difference Within his Vas Deferens.




That is love, baby. I personally won't even carry a pocket knife out of an irrational fear of sharp objects within a close proximity to my beloved balls. To pay someone to slice and dice the one area of my body which is the last thing I tuck in at night and the first thing I scratch in the morning, is an alien concept to me. If I were to awaken in the hospital, after a prolonged coma, with the doctor looking at me to grimly say, "Killer, after the freak accident we had to amputate both your legs and both your hands," I would reach down with both nubs, rub my nuts for good luck and say, "That's okay, we'll get by."

I only wish I could be there in person to see Ray Ray reclined gingerly in his favorite chair, in his underwear as usual, but with a giant bag of frozen peas placed, ever so gently, upon his groin.

Ray Ray, I wish you a speedy and steadfast recovery. It is going to be mighty uncomfortable atop that riding lawn mower for a spell. Maybe you can convince your wife to get out there in your place. You should probably avoid scratching the effected area for a few weeks, you would not want to damage those really small sutures. That would be the hardest part for myself. It is like asking the sun not to shine, or the wind not to blow.

Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Liz moves north of Killer's ball talk:

I mean, really... is there any need for me to have a conversation with you about this photo? But I will.

A few years ago, my BFF's husband was "getting back into tennis". This, in it's self, is funny as it had likely been 15 to 20 years and 50 pounds ago since he was "into" tennis. Being old school, he went to Ebay looking for some classic tennis shorts. You know what I'm talking about. The white shorty shorts with a thick polyester blue and red stripe down the side? Here's one of the photos that came along with some tennis shorts for sale.

I almost consider this pornography.

Random Ranting

Killer tossing out two totally unrelated stories

At the airport recently, I overheard a conversation mid-flow that finished with a statement which had me confused. "...that's exactly what I was trying to tell my grand babies' mommas the other day." I wanted to follow them to find out if she had one grand baby with two mothers or multiple grand babies from different mothers. I've always been fascinated with the hip vernacular used for illegitimate children. "He my baby daddy", "my baby's momma crazy", "and "I'm having baby momma drama" are some of my favorites. I would love to someday use these, but I'm not getting laid enough to expect a positive outcome.

Last week I admitted an eighty year old guy for "Altered Mental Status" into the ICU with a temperature of 102. The standard treatment for an elevated temp is Tylenol. There are only two ways to take Tylenol. One is the trusted oral route, the second is via the poop shoot. Since a confused eighty year old might be having a stroke, which would effect the swallowing abilities, the latter route was utilized. I gloved, lubed and, removed the suppository from the foil wrapper (an intricate part of suppository application). With a male, lying flat in bed, you can actually use a sly, frontal approach by lifting the balls and sliding the object into the anal cavity (in case you ever need to know). I looked up and said, "all done." He looked at me aghast and replied, "I don't know how you Navy boys do things around here, but in the Army, we don't go around touching each other like that." I really felt guilty. Even if he was confused, I don't want that poor guy thinking I was taking advantage of him. Maybe I should have bought him a drink first.