It’s official. The world has gone mad. According to a recent media report Australian men are flocking to get a new wrinkle-reducing procedure. Scrotox. Like Botox, the idea is to reduce wrinkles. But not in the face, in your balls. The place where everyone looks.
Because we all know that’s something men have always needed. ‘Trevor’s a nice bloke but his sack is a mess. It really ages him.’ Yep, what man doesn’t desire a date with his own big smooth balls? His very own shiny billiards nestling under the pool cue.
I don’t get it. I understand penis pumpers, penis enlargers and, in some rare cases, penis reductions, but wrinkle-free nuggets? I guess it would make them easier to shave or rest in egg cups if that’s the kind of thing you’re into, but I frankly can’t see the point of having the family jewels all perfect and smooth. Whom are you showing anyway? When have gorgeous gonads ever been a prerequisite for anything? For a start, it’s a ballsack. Swamp nuts. Cojones. Bollocks. They live in the underpants and lurk behind a piece of anatomy that very naturally attracts a lot more publicity. When it comes to PR it’s all about the penis. Come showtime, the ballsack sits backstage, watches the front pocket showpony from the wings. Doesn’t matter how much Botox you shoot into your balls, it’s never gonna rival the cock.
The penis is a simple structure, but impressive enough to feature on Grand Designs. There’s a reason that buildings have been modelled after the phallus instead of the nutsack. Nutsacks aren’t sexy. Nor are they architecturally sound. It’s like highrise versus a hairy yurt after a hail storm. Like Botox in the face, all expression will be removed. I mean how will we know how the poor ballsack is feeling? Happy Sack? Sad Sack?
It may come as a shock to most men, but women (I can’t speak for gay men, but I’m assuming they’re not in the ball park either) just aren’t that interested in your nuts. In fact in all my years, in my most sexually explicit conversations with girlfriends about the prowess of their new lover, I’ve never heard a single woman say, ‘My god, you should see his ballsack! It’s amazing. Not a wrinkle! He has the scrotum of a 10-year-old!’
The poor old nads have never rated a mention. I don’t mean to be cruel, but we don’t really care about your sack. I’ve never looked at my partner’s ballsack (actually I think I try not to look) and thought, if only I could iron out those wrinkles. ‘Darling get some Anusol on those things!’ And, I’ve never fantasised about a partner with a giant jewel bag.
That’s the other effect of Scrotox: it makes your balls bigger. I’m not actually sure what purpose Big Balls actually serve other than inspiring the lyrics of an AC/DC song for the amusement of adolescents in the 70s. It didn’t take a genius to work out that this wasn’t a song about a cocktail ball.
On the upside, Scrotox is purported to reduce sweating. No more sweaty ballsacks. That’s not just a selling point, that’s an ad campaign. I guess if you have a profusely sweating scrotum that somehow impedes your enjoyment of life, like you slip off bike seats or had some sort of debilitating jock-rotting condition that destroyed furniture, then maybe you might consider Scrotox.
So why Scrotox? And why now? Because Botox is big business and big business relies on expanding the market. There’s a finite supply of women’s faces to store cosmetic Botox. That’s a market that’s been very comfortably exploited.
But testicles. That’s a dark and hidden place of shame for men. Scrotox is just more market exploitation of human inadequacies and self-loathing. What man when faced with his sagging prunes wouldn’t jump at the chance of a couple of Xmas plums?
Please, blokes. Let the balls swing free. Imagine a world where nutsacks were perfect. Pert and swollen like boiled eggs in a body stocking. Where they didn’t slip out on a hot summer’s day down the left leg of Uncle Barry’s King Gees and emerge like a slowly escaping marsupial? That’s a world I just don’t want to live in. Buck the system and free-ball.
RIght On Mandy!
The only kind of man that wants to go through this ridiculous procedure is some insecure old fart trying to crack on to a younger partner. I am sure he dyes his pubic hairs (along with the hair on his head) or even better completely shaves them off so you can’t tell how old he is!
What a travesty!
I’ve just pointed out to my partner that it’s time for scrotox for him, thanks for putting me on to this Mandy.
Him “Good job you don’t care what my bollocks look like”
Me, “But I do, they’re hideous, I just never wanted to say when there was no cure. Now I really think you need to get it done.”
Of course, I couldn’t give a shit what his balls look like. After decades of pap smears, perineal stitches from pushing out over 20kgs of offspring and numerous other indignities, I reckon a few needles in his balls will be amusing.