Let me tell you a story about a guy I know. It’s not me… it’s just a guy… you know…that I know. He thinks he might be getting… you know… a little bit of OMB’s. He always figured the OMB’s would hold off until he was… you know… older… like maybe in his sixties. He might even give in and say it would be okay in his fifties. But not his forties… you know, he’s only forty-three… you know… this guy… that I know. Sure he’ll turn forty-four in September, but that’s only forty-four years young. They’re far from full-fledged OMB’s. They’re just starting to be OMB’s. Let’s call them early-onset OMB’s. They’re OMB’s that are just starting to hang a little lower than they used to. They’re nothing like eighty-year-old OMB’s. Not that he’s ever really seen eighty-year-old OMB’s, but he’s no dummy. I… uhhh… I mean… uh… he… has a pretty clear vision of what eighty-year-old OMB’s probably look like.
This recent discovery hasn’t affected him in any noticeable or significant way, other than a slight downgrade to his personal self-image and psyche. He just happened to notice his OMB’s in the mirror the other day. He had stepped out of the shower and was drying off and you know, the hot water had already caused them to hang down a little farther than usual. He said to himself “yeah dude, you need to start working out again… you’re looking a little soft in the middle… and man, you’re starting to get OMB’s.” He looked closer and they seemed to be just kind of hanging there, sort of sad-looking, like a set of old, overused punching bags that had long ago lost their elasticity. He had visions of the punching bags in the inner-city Philadelphia boxing gym from the 1970’s Rocky film… just hanging there with their Everlast logo worn off.
It’s a tough day in a middle-aged guy’s life when he notices he’s starting to get OMB’s. There are certainly many other signs of aging that a guy has to deal with. First a few brown spots and wrinkles all over his skin, then his metabolism slows down and each year his weight starts to inch up. Perhaps his fabulous coif of hair thins out a bit, but at the very least a few gray hairs start to appear. That’s all okay. Lots of guys have the benefit of “aging gracefully.” The gray hair looks distinguished. The slight paunch can be disguised under a nicely pressed Oxford dress shirt. The wrinkles on his face give that touch of rugged handsomeness. But then one day he looks in the mirror and sees OMB’s… those dreaded OMB’s. It’s an indisputable sign that the aging process is now in full swing and that the momentum in the epic battle between man and the overwhelming power of age and gravity is starting to shift. He thought it would hold off. He thought that those somewhat regular trips to the gym and a healthy diet would keep the balance on his side. He thought that he was ageless and invincible.
This guy… you know… the guy… that I know… you know? So he gets out of the shower and he notices he’s starting to get OMB’s… he briefly considers switching from boxers to briefs. But in reality he figures its all down hill from here. Then he remembers the squirrel…
… and he looks in the mirror and says, “I don’t give a fuck about OMB’s. I’m still a fucking stud and I’d stand in the desert and let someone take a goddamn picture of me and my OMB’s… just like the squirrel did…
… cause squirrels know what the fuck it’s all about.”
… and then he sang this song.
Do your balls hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Can you throw them over your shoulder,
Like a continental soldier?
Do your balls hang low?
I’ll bet that kick-ass squirrel sang that before he got his picture taken!