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Too Much Information: You've Been Warned by Ray Printer Friendly

It was only a matter of time, really. As soon as I picked up the little box containing the little tube, it was pretty much a done deal. I suppose you could say that it wasn’t quite a done deal until I paid for it and got home with it, but I think it was as soon as I picked up the box.

You know how I’ve been bitching about my back hurting? And you know how I bought some Icy Hot yesterday? Yeah…

I don’t know a nice way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it: I got it on my balls.

Let’s backtrack a bit, shall we?

I got home last night, and I was in some serious pain. In case you don’t understand how serious badass I am, I should probably explain it to you: I give old people heart attacks just by thinking about them. If you make eye contact with me, there’s a good chance that you’ll either bust a nut in your pants or die in fear. I’m not bragging here, man—I’m just telling you that you might want to watch out, especially if I’m not wearing my sunglasses. Oh, and I’m telling you that I’m stupid tough, man.

But I’m only human. I don’t know what the hell I was lifting up that was so heavy—probably either a building or a fat chick that was really liking the way I looked in my short pants—but whatever it was, it seriously messed me up.

So I put some pants on, even though it was the weekend, and I headed out to the store. I wanted it to be a quick in-and-out trip, but that plan got ditched as soon as I realized it took me ten minutes to find the section where they kept the muscle pain reliever. I was still in a hurry, though, so I didn’t do a lot of comparing. I saw the two most popular brands—Ben-Gay and Icy Hot—and grabbed one. Heard too many childhood jokes to grab the Ben-Gay.

I get home with my Icy Hot, and my princess offers to apply it to my back. I’m thinking this is a total win—I won’t have to go through all the trouble of rubbing this crap all over me, plus she’ll have her hands all over me, which is always pretty arousing, even if I am in excruciating pain.

So I’m laying there on the bed, she’s rubbing it in, and it’s feeling pretty nice. Cool at first, then warm—just as promised. It feels so good that my eyelids droop closed, and I’m thinking, screw going out and writing—I’ll just go to sleep.

And then she puts a cold, damp cloth on my back.

It starts to sting a bit, and then it starts to ache. Within seconds, it feels like I’m being skinned alive. I jump up off the bed, throw the rag into the corner.

“What did you do to me?”

“I…nothing…it was supposed to feel good.”

“What was on there?”

“Just cold water.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t some kind of acid? It felt like acid.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re fine—it’s just water.”

“It burns.”

“It’s because you aren’t used to it.”

“Is it melting away my skin? I think it is.”

She laughs. “You’re not melting. Calm down.”

“Is it red? It looks all red to me. Chemical burn, chemical burn!”

“Do you want me to wipe it off?”

“What would you use?”

“Water.”

“Shit no! Water, are you crazy? We need to neutralize it!”

“Come over here, I’ll wipe it off.”

“You stay away from me. What, did you take out a life insurance policy?”

I’m pretty sure that at this point, she isn’t sure whether she should be laughing or disgusted with herself for dating such a douche bag. She’s rolling her eyes a lot, though, I know that.

“Do you want me to wipe it off, or not?”

“Actually, it feels fine, now. I guess it burned down to the nerve endings. Actually, it feels pretty good.”

She shrugged and went back to the bedroom. “Stay away from your computer—sitting in that chair is gonna make your back hurt.”

“Okay,” I said, sitting down at my computer.

“At least wait until you’re drunk enough so that you can’t feel it hurt,” she calls from the bedroom. How could I not be in love with her?

“‘Kay,” I say, knocking back a boiler-maker. I wrote my post, which was actually supposed to be this post, except I got sidetracked by lesbians and chairs.


I woke up this morning and felt better. I applied the Icy Hot to my back by myself this time, and avoided covering it with a torturous wet rag. By noon, my back was feeling pretty spectacular, which is probably what led to my downfall.

Because I realized that this Icy Hot stuff, it’s supposed to relieve muscle aches all over, you know? My back had been monopolizing the pain, but my legs hurt, too. And my arms. Hell, man, I move about a billion pounds of pool supplies a day—sure, they’re in 50-pound increments, but still. Why should my body ache when I have this tube of Icy Hot?

So I rub myself down: my arms, my back, my legs, whatever hurts. And then I realize something. Although I haven’t put any of this crap on my testicles, it’s still gonna get on ‘em, because they’ll touch my inner thighs, where I did put any of this crap. I should have wrapped up the boys in plastic wrap, but it’s too late for that now.

I can already feel the burning. I try to situate them so they aren’t resting against the Icy Hot-covered area, and I realize that even though I’ve washed my hands, I didn’t get all the Icy Hot off, apparently.

Long story short: Icy Hot on the balls.

Like I said, it probably would have happened, anyways. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder what it felt like ever since seeing Revenge of the Nerds when I was ten years old. I’m not sure I would have had the courage to slap a handful of the stuff on the ole balls and chain, but I would have been tempted. And I’ve never been good at resisting temptation.

It burned like the devil’s lust for a few minutes, but after that, it actually felt kind of nice. I wouldn’t recommend it—not unless I don’t like you and I think you’re stupid enough to take extraordinarily bad advice—but if you’re ever in a situation where it comes up that you have Icy Hot on your balls, don’t worry. It’s not so bad.

‘Night, li’l homies.


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