To truly be a Man... I mean a meat-eating, secretary's-ass-slapping, public-gaseous-expelling, grunting-eat-sleep-and-shit Man, one must scratch their balls. A lot.

I've been told, by many a female, that this is simply an excuse to play with our stuff. Not true.

If we are going to do that, we need no excuse, it's going to happen because we actually DO need to readjust things, or just because it simply feels good.

But the scratching actually has two purposes. It helps us readjust, and you bet yer ass it feels good. Not in the keep-this-up-and-this-suckers-gonna-go-off-like-a-Fire-Hose "good" way either, it's just relief for the most part.

I've been feeling decidedly Manly lately. A lot. Like all the damn time. Even when I was baking a cheesecake for the most awesomest neighbors ever as thanks for taking care of Asshead during house-showings, I was still feeling very, very manly.

Things started happening because of this though. First and foremost was my complete heartbreak at the fact that I had worn a hole in the front of my favorite old pair of Carhartt's. It's not huge, but probably too big for my meager sewing skills to patch (again, MANLY, even when sewing). And not even that brief dip in icy, mountain, river coul stifle my... Manliness.

The other effect from all of this ManStuff is a little more personal.

Scary personal.

Like, who-the-fuck-do-I-talk-to-about-this-shit personal.

After a week of some serious discomfort, both mentally and physically, I finally broke down and talked to the Mom about it. She used to be a nurse, and her LifePartner still kind of is, so I figured I was safe.

The subject wasn't one that I just wanted to drop in the Mom's lap (watch it, sicko...), so I eased into it gracefully, "Hey ma, you know that doctor you recommended for a physical? Does she... uh... you know... check alla my stuff?"

"Oh sure, heart-rate, cholestoral (good and bad), metabolic rate..." she's listing things off her fingertips.

"No. Ma. All of my STUFF. Does she check it?" I ask uncomfortably.

"Is there something specific you need her to look at?" the Mom asks, obviously not getting it.

"You could say that. I've got... ahh... a minor issue, and it's kind of freaking me out," and I really AM kind of freaked out.

The Mom's face falls, "Honey, what is it? What's wrong?!?"

"Well, it started with this itching... now, it's... um... rashy... and spreading... and red." much as my face is quickly becoming.

LifePartner comes into the kitchen and, in her usual, tactful way, asks, "Are you talking about why you've been scratching yourself so much? You been diggin' in there for a couple weeks haven't you? And you're just asking about it NOW?"

"Well, I didn't think much of it. I guess it kind of started not long after I got back from Atlant... oh shit."

LifePartner gets serious now too, "What? What's wrong? What happened in Atlanta?!?"

At this point, sweat is dripping down my face, and I'm seriously dreading possibly having to make that phone call. I am unable to speak, and instead work my jaw up and down noiselessly in an effort to get my mouth to explain exactly what my incredibly fuzzy brain can remember about my drunken New Year's Eve.

The Mom hands me a beer in an effort to calm me and says, "Maybe you could just describe what's going on... with your guys."

Stifling a giggle at my mother's use of a term I use quite frequently, I tell the both of them all of the details of my... *ahem* groinal issues.

During the entire time that I am describing my malady, in a quavering and quaking voice, LifePartner has a grin that seems to be ever-widening.

I finally ask, "What? WHAT?"

She supresses the smile, puts a serious "doctor" look on, and says while nodding sagely, "Sounds like you may have a case of Tinea Cruris."

"I DO?!? WHAT the FUCK is THAT!?! Oh, Christ, is it contagious?!? I may have to call somebody and warn 'em... I don't feel so good... does it come with a fever and fainting?!?" I moan loudly as I begin to swoon.

"Oh Jeezus, don't be so damn dramatic. You mean to tell me, during all your years of playing football..." she starts.

"Football?" I think, "what the fuck does this have to do with football?"

"...playing hockey, IN TEXAS..." she's drawing this out deliberately. Bitch.

"Hockey?" I wonder again, "now I'm getting confused. What does hockey have to do with a life-threatening STD?"

"...you never even once had a case of JOCK ITCH?"

"Jock Itch?" I ask, "I thought that was just a myth perpetuated by coaches to get us to wash our equipment more often."

"Heh! Not quite, itchy-boy," she's laughing now, "How long has it been since you washed your equipment?"

"Well," I am submerged in that mixture of incredible relief and crushing humility, "it's bad luck to wash my stuff too often..."

"How often is too often?" she says staring wide-eyed at me.

"Um... lessee..." I begin counting on my fingers and mumbling, "schizzin... nozzen... feswin... Ah, beginning of this season."

"Which was when?" Both she and The Mom are so thoroughly amused that smoke is rising from our impending dinner on the stove.

"Um... September 5th," I say, pleased that I can remember the exact date.

"SEPTEMBER?!?!" They shout in unison, scaring the corgi out of the kitchen.

"And you wear it how many nights a week?!?" LifePartner stares at me, mouth agape.

"Two," I say, blinking casually, "sometimes three."

By now, the Mom is tending to dinner, but laughing and shaking her head in that amused way that only a mother can have about her completely gotarded son, and LifePartner is absolutely hooting with laughter.

She finally composed herself enough to tell me, "Get some Anti-Fungal cream at the Drug Store, anything'll work, and for the love of all you hold dear in that rainforest jungle you call a crotch, WASH YOUR GODDAM EQUIPMENT."

I'm pleased to say that even Brand-X Antifungal works like a charm, and nothing has fallen off, turned green, or spawned a small army of swamp creatures hell-bent on taking over my nether regions.

It probably isn't a very good sign though, that my equipment began hissing and smoking the instant it hit the soapy water.

I even thought I heard screaming coming from under the washer lid, but I didn't stick around in the enclosed, low-air-movement laundry room with my hockey equipment long enough to investigate.

I make no apologies for writing about my balls two entries in a row either.

I mean, let's be honest, they're a huge part of my life.

In fact, without them, I wouldn't want to live.

I'll write about my eyes, ears, internal organs, and other not-as-important stuff some other time.