A 1-post collection

This is why we can't have nice things!

This is why we can't have nice things!

Follow the link in the title to see a shocking exhibit of the most self-entitled douchebros on Twitter. It’s horrible.

That right there? That’s why we need feminism.

Not one of these knob-heads thought for one instant about her thoughts and feelings throughout the entire ordeal. And believe me, it’s an ordeal. I should know, and so should anyone else who’s even thought they found a lump.

It’s a fucking ordeal.

Even when it turns out to be benign.

But, since this is arrogant, unthinking douchebros we’re talking about, I guess it’s my sad duty to walk them through the thought process.

Let’s wander into fantasy land and imagine that your favourite body part has made you famous. Go on. Picture yourself as a porn star. We know you do it anyway, but stop short of sticking your hand down there and going further because you’ve found a lump in an intimate place.

It’s a lump that could mean horrible, horrible things for your future career.

The good news is, it’s not noticeable unless you’re actively feeling for it and it’s not causing any pain. You have two choices: go to a doctor and get it checked out, or ignore it and hope that everything’s fine.

Now, thanks to raging societal sexism, most doctors checking out your junk are going to be men. And since I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts all of you douchebros are cishets, that means a certain amount of squickyness when it comes to getting your junk felt up by a total stranger. Therefore, you’re either going to waste time and money looking for a photogenic lady doctor[They’re rarer on the ground than porn would lead you to believe] to check out your famous junk, or you’re going to cringe in embarrassment and soldier on.

FYI- Ladies have the same problems with their boobs. Only they’re looking for lady doctors because they don’t want some strange man adding them to their spank file. You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t deny it.

Back to the hypothesis.

Now, assuming you’ve made the obvious [and stupid] decision to let things slide in favour of heteronormitivity; someone notices the lump in a later film. Your manager makes you go to a doctor who diagnoses you with [ta-dah!] JUNK CANCER.

Suddenly, the thing that’s made your lucrative career is now your worst enemy. The thing you love the most is going to kill you. And -worse- the doctors tell you that if you had it scoped out when only you knew how to find it… they could have stopped it in its tracks.

Doctors tell you that your only hope is a total junk removal. The whole thing. Penis, scrotum, and contents. And you have to do it RIGHT NOW or you’re going to die a slow and expensive death.

Now imagine that every single one of your fans calls you a fucking moron for making this call.

Ladies have a more… bipolar relationship with their breasts. They have no control over when they arrive, how they look, how big they get, how fast, and what people think of them as a direct result.

Big ones get in the way. Little ones get one confused with the opposite gender. And clothing shops everywhere assume that every woman on the planet has a B-cup. Fit to the torso, the chestal areas will look wrong. Fit to the chest, the rest of it looks wrong. As far as fashion is concerned, nobody can look good unless they’re that one percent [or a faction of one percent, I haven’t looked up the statistics] that the fashion industry is actually making clothes for.

And keeping the chestal areas in control is a hell of a lot harder than accidentally sitting on your own ballsack once in a while. Trust me, 90% of brassieres are concealed torture devices. And don’t get me started on that little bit of lace they put on the industrial models so they “look more feminine”. That shit turns into a rusty sawblade of doom before lunchtime.

Ladies do not feel the same way about boobs that you do. They do not feel the same way about boobs that you do about your junk. It’s love-hate all the way.

And then there’s a lump.

All of a sudden, the thing that has defined your life is at risk. The thing that defines YOU is in danger, despite how much you hate it, sometimes. Nothing in this world shy of becoming an unexpected eunuch can come near that visceral fear that comes with finding that lump.

What Angelina Jolie did with her breasts is her business. It was brave. Unbelievably brave.

And it took way more balls than you’ll ever have in a lifetime.