Phil Harris

A group composed of a few friends and family members embarked on a bizarre adventure the other day. It was one of those moments in time, when one’s life teeters precariously on a fence. One side represents the expected evolution of time and maturity, while deep emotional scars lie on the other, waiting to pounce upon sanity with merciless fury.

Indeed, like foolish children who are mesmerized by the piper’s song, we made our way to South Bend, Nebraska and the annual Testicle Festival. I have long heard stories of this insane practice, and being unaware of any testicle induced fatalities, curiosity got the best of me. I ordered a basket of deep fried testicles, and I ate them.

Perhaps due to a miraculous intervention on the part of my Guardian Angel, I came away from this experience without serious harm to my person or my psyche, and the episode did not afflict me with an ongoing desire to eat testicles. There is no doubt in my mind that I enjoy eating cattle parts; however, I prefer those located south of the neck, and comfortably north of the tail.

On the trip to South Bend, everyone in the group displayed a marvelous wit. There was no foreboding silence, in anticipation of the violent palate abuse that lay in front of us. Rather, a continuous stream of testicle jokes, puns, and humorous observations reverberated on the tinted windows of our red minivan. For instance, we had a bit of trouble locating the small town due to confusing directions. One member of our party suggested, we would know that we were close when the cattle appeared to be standing funny.

Of course, there are obvious lessons to be drawn from this experience, considering the herd of political animals that dream of grabbing the reigns of power in 2008. I mean certainly, I cannot be the only one who thinks “politician” when he hears the word testicles. At least one candidate, who dreams of the Presidency, is not supposed to have any; nevertheless, I would not bet my 401k on that.

Be that as it may, I am afraid that a serious testicle shortage exists in the nation’s beltway. After all, one might assume that a healthy, normal dose of testosterone would cause this powerful nation’s leaders to clinch their teeth in a fighting rage, as terrorists and other homicidal maniacs blow up our troops and innocent Iraqi citizens. Instead, we have witnessed the neutering of our congressional delegations as they cower in retreat; handing the devil’s minions the predictable victory they designed.


Phil Harris

Phil Harris is a software engineer, author of Cry for the Shadows and blogs at Citizen Phil.

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