My Misfit brother Dean and I went up to Dallas this weekend for a fundraiser, which, incidentally, was put on by the leather club to which both of our ex-boyfriends belong. We ended up having a very good time regardless, and to reward ourselves for making it through the event without drama or formal charges filed against us, we dropped by
Mecca Shangri-La Leather Masters, where we basically just ran around like happy little kids in a Roald Dahl novel.
Along the back wall, we discovered an extensive display of paddles. A few of them caught my attention, so I pulled one down and turned to Dean with ill-concealed glee.
“Can I try this out on you?” I asked.
Dean shrugged affably and stuck his butt out a little, and I gave him a light but solid swat. In response, he jerked and straightened up, surprise and confusion roiling across his face.
“That… made my balls tingle,” he said.
“Hmm, interesting,” I replied, grabbing a different paddle and swatting him again before he could stop me. “Does this one make your balls tingle more or less?”
“Okay. What about this one?” [swat]
“And this one?” [swat]
“Let’s try a lacquered one.” [swat]
“Ooh, this one has a triskele etched into it.” [swat]
With this new litmus in place, we went through most of the paddles in stock, including a frosted acrylic one shaped like an inverted cross. (I was hoping for good metrics based on the blasphemy alone, but Dean’s balls barely reacted.) A leather ping-pong paddle ultimately garnered the most tingles, so I ferried it up to to the front counter, where the salesgirl running the register was all, “Great choice! This one’s my favorite.”
I was pretty psyched that Dean’s balls were able to accurately identify the best paddle in the shop, and now I’m starting to wonder what other powers they might have. Could I dowse with Dean’s balls? Could I use them for divination? The possibilities seem limitless. I may have to take out a patent.
PS: The only rough patch of the trip occurred on Saturday evening, back at our hotel. It turns out that we both suffer from sleep apnea, which means we both snore so loudly that we woke each other up every twenty minutes or so. The following morning, Dean was like, “I can’t believe how insane your snoring is,” and I was all, “Really? Because it sounded like a wildebeest was getting raped on your side of the bed.” So Dean was like, “Well, next time we’ll bring earplugs,” and I was all, “And an extra pillow, because I’m going to smother you with it.”
I was totally joking, of course. I seriously have no idea what a wildebeest sounds like.