And now, a quote from Bash.org:
<Dynamo> Do that again, and I will switch your testicles with your eyes.
This, to me and probably only to me, screams like an idea for a comic book superhero. Probably one of those black-and-white comic books with really expressive art, lots of drugs, and really small publishers.
Or then a novel of personal tragedy and coping with it.
“Ew, look at that guy.”
“The one with those boxed-in sunglasses? Sitting with his legs spread like he’s the God King of Sex?”
“That’s the one. The one who keep touching his crotch all the time.”
“It’s not just that, there’s something glinting there. I think he has a camera hidden there.”
“A camera in his crotch?”
“What else could it be? A monocle?”
“Hey, braveheart, you scram. You ain’t got the balls to stand up to me.”
I grinned as wide as I could, and raised a hand to my shades. From my lowly vantage point I could see the bully shifting uneasily, not knowing why I wasn’t running already. “I ain’t got the balls?” I grated, then swiped the glasses off, feeling a pair flop out onto my cheeks. “I got more balls than you know.”
After that there was only screaming and running on their part, and more mad grinning from me.
“Ma’am, did you get a look at his face?”
“I… Officer, I don’t know if I—”
“Anything you can say is of help. Hair color, eye color—”
“Ma’am? Ma’am, why are you— Did I say something?”
“The hell…? Are they painted on or what? Seriously, man, who paints their nuts to look like eyes?”
“That’s not all.”
“Yikes! They blinked! How did you do that?”
“Years of practice.”
“Don’t tell me this is a passed-down-in-the-family thing.”
It’s a well-known bit of advice that you should never anger a wizard, for they are cackling mad and quick to anger.
They also don’t do figurative speech. You’d think they would, being all John Dee and alchemy-mumbo-jumbo and astral spirits sloshing all over the place, but they don’t.
They mean exactly what they say. No more, and no less.
Trust me, I know this from experience.
I’ve talked to several surgeons. They’ve mostly just screamed back at me. Then gibbered that even if they tried, I’d end up impotent and blind. That they’ve never seen anything like me. That they were never taught anything like this. That their school would like me to become an exhibit.
No. I have too much dignity for that.
Plus I don’t think there’s going to be a second case of me. The wizard added insult to injury: he laughed so hard he died of it. Then his ghost saw me crying “Help! I see my underpants!” and it died of laughter too.
It’s not the loneliness of my condition that gets to me.
No, it’s the sex life.
All I see is a fist, always almost punching me in the eyes. That’s a major turn-off.
On the other hand, I can infinitely delay ejaculation just by tensing my throat a bit. Then I swallow and, boom, here I come. The joys of unorthodox tubing.
As for partners, well, I would be the most attentive of lovers, eyes open for all details, but for obvious reasons I mostly make love in the dark. And, in reality, slapping your squeezed-shut eyes against someone’s butt gets old really fast.
Not to mention that one lady who decided she wanted to see my eyes before we finished. She screamed, kneed me in the eyes, and ran away. I was cross-eyed for a week.
I switched jobs pretty quickly. When you see through your crotch, you don’t look good when using your computer. Or reading a book. Plus when you sit down at your desk you’re practically blind. You hear someone coming, you push back, push your crotch up at them, shake it to align your eyes with the discreet slits, and yell “Hello Helen!” — doesn’t get you any friends in the company.
I tried acting like I was actually really medically blind — hey, I was wearing the shades already — but there are lots of blind people and those guide dogs, they were always going for the crotch, nose wet and curious. And they got really angry when I tried to stare them down.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s gotten to Fifi-Arnold now. He’s been staring at your… your no-nos for a while now, and I’ve never seen him growling like this!”
“Gee. I never noticed. Been… been watching the skyline or a wall the whole time.”
Does a cloth-covered crotch with eyes look like a dog’s face to a dog or something? I’ve been trying to find an answer to this question, but seems nobody has ever asked it before.
I am a rare hero. I’m the only one that can get a broken nose when punched in the balls. I’m the only one whose farts are literally eye-watering. I’m the only one who needs shades and also fiber optics from the crotch to the collar to function in normal society. I’m a loner. An avenger. Wherever there is evil, I will be watching for it. Watching… from below.
I call myself… the Eyeball.