Humor Magazine

What Really Sandpapers My Balls – 2nd Ed.

By Christopher De Voss @chrisdevoss

I’m certain you are all waiting in breathless anticipation for some Ranty® screed about Thanksgiving that will shame, highlight or compliment the other great writers here on LAP. Sorry – you’re not getting that. Overall, Thanksgiving is only slightly notched below the 4th of July for my personal favorite holiday. Besides, Howard made sure my holiday post for December came after the Gorge-a-Thon but too early to bitchslap Christmas.

I can say that my pre-holiday shopping did teach me two lessons. The first of which is this: DO NOT SHOP FOR FOOD ON THE WEEKEND BEFORE THANKSGIVING. Unless you enjoy walking at 1.3 mph behind herds of people fanatically grabbing every can of cranberry sauce and chicken stock, just starve for a week. It makes the special day that much more awesome anyway.

So the second lesson I learned is: I AM GOD’S PERSONAL CHEW TOY. How do I know this? I again reference the entire hour I spent buying twelve items at the Commissary. Twelve, and yes, an hour in the building alone. You might wonder why, and I might be inclined to entertain that question.

The day already sucked – I was dehydrated from my weekend beer tasting and the temperature held below freezing for two days. Nonetheless, I collected my wallet, phone, list and lucky human ear and went to obtain food. God, as I hinted, had other plans. His instrument of torture came in the form of a guy I named Mr. Blocki… Mr. Pennis C. Blocki, probably going by his middle name Cocky.

The first insult to my patience was in the produce section. Blocki stood there fondling the Fuji apples (my favorite and a diet staple). Undeterred, I collected the other vegetation I’d toss into my hole. Blocki remained there, ass-raping the entire Fuji apple pile. Every single apple got touched, squeezed and inspected. Did I mention it was in slow motion? I needed about ten apples, and feared none would be left. Pennis effectively ratfucked the pile and walked away with five bags. I wished over-fibered Hershey squirts on him and quickly did my own ratfucking for my apples. I am quick and polite, however, and I never make my apple selection appear sexual.

Next encounter: I needed another shaker of seasoned pepper. In the spice aisle, I spied the one remaining pepper. Who else would be standing there, slowly reading the glass jars of spices to find the one he needed? No, not Howard. It was Mr. Cocky Blocki, of course. I wanted to reach past him and snatch my prize, but he stood so close as he read that I’d be forced to contact his junk area. I was prepared to deliver a death punch there, but not anything resembling a caress after observing his apple selection. Instead I ground my teeth because even a hump as stupid as I am knows that the spices are arranged alphabetically.

I changed tactics and skipped ahead several aisles, hopefully leaving Blocki behind. My last item is eggs, and of course there’s a half-cooler packed with them. Common etiquette says you should and can check those puppies before you put them in your basket. One might be cracked. I do it, and if you don’t you’re a ‘tard. Today of course, Mr. Blocki sensed my need and had positioned himself in the cooler door. He methodically took out and checked ten packages of eggs. He went so far as to pluck them out – each of the dozen per package – and check the undersides.

Another shopper stood next to me, wanting his rightful turn at the eggs as well. We shared looks of mutual hate for Cock Blocki. Other egg-needers gathered, and I sensed a beating on the horizon. Blocki saved his own life by finally deeming one package to be perfectly perfect enough for his soon-to-be apple-filled colon and walked off with his Burberry-wrapped wife.

Maybe I’m not God’s chew toy, but I’d say I’m at least the squeaky one, or the big rawhide strip. Either way, I’m not amused. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what sandpapered my balls this month.

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