Fun non-gaming activities: Covering your junk in bleach
In this new regular feature, we discuss the ways you can fill your spare time now that you’re no longer a gamer.
Finding enjoyable pastimes is an important part of moving on. Last night, for example, I decided to clean the house, and ended up keeping myself so busy that I didn’t think of games once. How did I manage this, you ask? By accidentally covering my penis in bleach!
Boy, was that a scream. Pretty much the only things on my mind were intense self-hatred and a pain that felt like acid spiders crawling into my balls. Awesome. So, for all you recovering game addicts out there, here’s a handy guide to getting bleach all over your penis.
In any successful plan, the key is preparation. Before you start, make sure you have a large bottle of industrial strength bleach. Ideally you want one with a zesty lemon flavour, since this will add extra citrus and elevate your pain to indescribable levels. However, if you just have common household Domestos, that’s great too.
But enough preparation! I’m sure you’re dying to start the fun. So here’s what you do. Get your bottle of bleach and squirt it liberally all over the inside of your toilet. Mmmmm, smells great, doesn’t it. Just breathe deeply and imagine all those turd viruses dying, screaming for mercy to a god who will never answer. This is what house cleaning is all about. But don’t stop there! The rim of your toilet directly under the seat looks pretty grimy, so go ahead and coat that with clinical death liquid as well. Screw you, barely visible urine stain! Eat alkaline hellblob, pube.
Make sure to leave as much bleach as possible in the area that is most likely to make direct contact with your junk. The awesome thing is that no amount of flushing will remove the bleach from this upper rim. And you’re certainly not going to clean it off yourself, are you! No, that would be silly.
So, it’s late in the evening, you’re toothbrushed and ready for bed. Well, almost ready. There’s one thing left to do, and that’s to coat your penis in unimaginable agony! Here’s what you do. Take your pants down and recline on the ol’ Death Throne, let nature take its course, and ruminate on this and that. If your truncheon isn’t fully touching the toxic area, maybe give some thought to a mêlée of greased men wrestling in a field, naked as the day they were born. Whatever floats your boat.
“But Tim,” you might say if you’re trying this technique right now, “I can’t feel any pain at all. What are you trying to pull here?” But don’t despair! It takes a few seconds to kick in. You’ll know when it does, because you’ll suddenly be assaulted by an awful searing creeping agony in the most horrendous location imaginable, and you’ll shoot up from the toilet screaming “Oh god! Oh shit! Oh FUCK!”
For those of you who live in stupidly designed apartments, this is a great time to lurch over to your huge washbasin, wait a thousand eternities for it to fill with water, and then discover that no matter at what angle you idiotically thrust your crotch out, there is simply no way for your burning serpent to make contact with the sweet, soothing water contained therein. Now is when you should shout “stupid dumb fucking twat bastard” repeatedly while flailing tearfully around for something, anything to make the horror stop.
We’re having fun!
I don’t know about you, but for me, there’s nothing quite like the feeling of a thousand flaming tarantulas fighting for access to my glans. Really nothing whatsoever. But every fun-time adventure has to end eventually, so when you think you’ve had enough, you might want to effeminately splash your crotch with water that would usually be hot enough to make you wince, but now feels like the soothing kiss of an angel. As a final coup de grâce, use the most abrasive toilet roll in existence to scrape hideously at the poor remains of your manhood until the adrenaline wears off and you begin, softly, to cry.
Of course, the fun isn’t entirely over, because your junk won’t stop hurting all night! This is because you’ve somehow managed to get bleach inside your penis, and the mystery of how this is even possible will keep you tossing and turning in agonised incomprehension until approximately 4:30 AM.
Now aren’t you glad you decided to clean the house instead of spending the evening playing computer games?
Yeeeeeah.
Filed under: Fun non-gaming activities
They say “comedy is other people’s pain”. This has never been more true.
You’ll be relieved to know that my penis is now fully recovered, and is also so sparkling clean that you could eat your dinner off it.
I’m not entirely sure HOW you would eat your dinner off it, unless…uh, I guess you could stick all the food onto a kebab skewer, and then stick the kebab skewer in my OH GOD I AM ENDING THIS COMMENT NOW IT HAS GONE TOO FAR
Please don’t stop.
Gods, that sounds worse then the time I had like an ingrown hair or some shit on my dick and I thought some Aloe would help the healing.
Fuck no it does not by the way, do not try to make your penis feel better with Aloe Vera gel.
But not quite as bad as the time I [COMMENT EDITED FOR HORROR].
Verm, once again you and I have a penis anecdote in common. I suspect we will one day discover that our wangs are long-lost twins. Is yours nineteen inches long as well? And prehensile?
Also, my nightmare has always been the thought of getting a wart down there, because ain’t no man going to freeze my junk. NO MAN.
The closest I’ve gotten to such a horrific travesty involving my precious precious man meat was when I got soap inside just a teeny bit. That hurt more than enough for me to cringe with tears in my eyes at every word of this story. You are a man among men, sir.
Tim, your tale of groin peril reminds me of the time the doctor thought I had testicular cancer and made me get an ultrasound. I got to enjoy two chatty nurses just laughing and having a gay old time while scanning my nuts, recently slathered with the coldest liquid known to mankind, whilst I laid there wondering what would be worse: losing one of my balls or having to endure more of this torture. A half hour of excruciating ball frigidness and feminine laughter is enough to crack even the hardiest of men.
Oh man, that sounds like a party at Angry Baboon’s house. You have my deepest sympathy. If you managed to put up with that hell without cracking, you have truly earned your username.
Junk and women should only go together if they are accompanied by phrases such as “wow” and “surely that’s not all for me”. Anything else can easily destroy a man’s frail ego.
When I was fourteen and deeply self-conscious, a nurse had to examine my knob. Long story. During the examination I was scanning her face for smirks so intently that if she had suffered a momentary facial tic, I would have immediately beaten myself to death.
Apparently nothing brings men together like tales of phallic woe. This was a beautiful moment, guys.
lmao, the comments were actually funnier than the story
x
It’s clear from the comments that every man in the world has a penis injury story which he is dying to tell everyone, but is too embarrassed to do it for fear of ridicule.
I wonder if girls have the same thing. Do you have websites where you talk about all the times you accidentally punched yourselves in the Delicate Cleft?
Oh yeah totally, we all just hang out and talk about the times we got genital razor-burn/hideous waxing injuries and the indescribable pain of not quite making it over the horse in gym class (although in my case the broken nose hurt considerably more than the bruised ladyparts) :oP
I think every man has one of these tales merely because any injury to the dangly bits is inherently notable. One does not fall down the stairs and mildly observe that they have managed to ram the handrail into their junk. Oh no, good sir, that is a tale of epic woe and pain.
In a way, it’s some form of a rite of passage. By telling everyone about the time that you knocked the lid off of your fire ant colony while trying to clean the sticky honey mess you recently made on your crotch, you let them know that you are now a man, vis-a-vis indescribable bitey insect pain.
Well, that’s tonight’s nightmare sorted. Thanks Colonel; that’s one less thing to plan.
I do wonder if women can feel the same type of pain that men feel when they suffer nad injury. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they can feel a comparable amount of pain, but there’s something horriffically unique about crushed nads. It’s not just physical pain; it’s also a philosophical agony.
Curled on the floor in a fetal position, you suddenly have a startlingly clear knowledge that one day you will die, as will all your friends and family, and every living thing on the planet. And you’re fine with that. In fact, you wish it would happen RIGHT NOW.
Them’s some bad bananas.
TIm, you are hot. True story. *kiss*
I got one! I got one!
How about copious amounts of gasoline pouring over your junk because your dad didn’t screw the cap back on?
When you’re 13?
You know, when you’re just starting to use it?
And how about the frantic, terrified hour following when you rush into the house and crank the cold water in the bathtub, assuming that cold = good to relieve burning, not knowing that it only causes the petroleum-based gas to bead and hurt even more?
Oh, and then there’s the embarrassment of having to call for your brother and explain that your nuts are on fire and you don’t know what to do, and the subsequent shame when he, at only 11, says to turn the hot on.
Fun times.
In response to the “I do wonder if women can feel the same type of pain that men feel when they suffer nad injury” wonderingness. In my experiance not as serious. I had a very unfortunate experiance with you know one of those big metal poles that from the top look like and three pronged star. Yeh well one of those… and a trampoline…
let your imagination run wild!
Ow.
OWWWW.
I think I just clenched every single part of my body. Christopholes and Kaitlyno2, you are now officially members of the Junk Hater’s Club. Next meeting is on Tuesday, so make sure you bring your spiky clubs!
Oh, and Sadie is the nicest girl’s name ever.
[...] Spilling bleach on places you would prefer not to [...]
My first dog was named Sadie.
Good choice of name. There’s also a very sweet Joanna Newsom song called Sadie. Well, I say “sweet”; if you don’t like her voice, the song is about as pleasant as attacking your junk with a cheese grater.
Now there’s an idea for the next article.
I used to unload trucks full of randomly assorted and maniacally “stacked” merchandise for a department store. They say they load the heavy boxes first and the light boxes on top. In reality you get 300 pound boxes containing swimming pools, trampolines and 40 inch TVs haphazardly piled up some feet above your head. Sometimes they like to unstack themselves to help you out. Sometimes they jump right into your crotch. Sometimes your coworkers realize they can’t see you and investigate. At these times they find you on the floor.
I’m just lucky that I injured my back and had to be transfered to the sales floor while I could still have children.
For the poor people who didn’t get out in time, there was at least one consolation. “Man killed by swimming pool” is possibly the most awesome obituary ever.
well i wrecked while sledding and i was still sliding - fairly fast - and i ran straight into a bush nads first
Sledding, like bouncy castles and Wii Sports, is one of those things that always end up with someone getting injured.
When I was 7 or so, my family went sledding on Parbold Hill, Lancashire’s premium sledding hotspot. On the first ride down I was in a sled with my sister, and we collided with someone else’s sled, catapulting us out of our respective vehicles and sending us rolling down the hill, accompanied by the terrified screams of people desperately trying to avoid running us over.
On the second effort, we had a clear run down to the bottom. Too clear. We were going about 30 miles per hour when we struck a snow ramp at the bottom of the hill, once again sending us flying from our sled, but this time we hurtled straight into a pine forest. My mother found Fiona lying on the ground semi-concussed; I was light enough to have been thrown directly into a tree, where I mused philosophically from a branch ten feet above the floor.
The third ride was more relaxed. We split up in order to reduce the intertia, and as I rocketed towards the bottom of the hil, I managed to steer my sled away from the trees and towards an invitingly flat piece of snow. A few sconds later I came to rest, softly, gently, in what turned out to be a semi-frozen lake. As the icy water crept over my thighs, I realised that I was truly having fun.
I’m not sure getting bashed in the quim is comparable to nadger injury but be glad that you don’t have boobs. Getting elbowed in the tit matches the pain, no doubt. Especially when you’re a teenager and they’re just budding and they hurt all the time. Or menstrual and they’ve swelled to one and a half times their usual size.