What you are about to read in a personal insight to my personal life and should be viewed as such. This is not an attempt to brag, attack, belittle, or otherwise negatively impact anyone other than the occasional opportunity to make fun of myself. If you are a family member: know that you’re about to read something that could make future interaction weird. If you are someone I have dated in the past and what you’re reading sounds like I am talking about you – I probably am. If you feel the need to be snarky in the comments section, be my guest. Just know I will reply with equal or greater snarkiness. NO names will be mentioned. Dates will be changed. No one is innocent, but I’ll do my best to protect us.
P.S. – MOM, this is one of those posts you probably should avoid if we are going to make eye contact any time soon.
As a general rule for living, I’m not one to complain about much of anything. I see videos online of people absolutely losing their shit at fast food restaurants or coffee joints over a wrong order or something equally as miniscule, and I think to myself: “Is that really worth the effort?” Ugh, being pissed off all the time would be fucking exhausting. That being said, recently I was set off into ragey-beastmode. The problem was that the person/people responsible for the egregious action was probably halfway across the world.
Let me explain.
One evening I was getting ready for a date that I was almost positive was going to end in naked gymnastics with a very attractive woman. It had been a while since I’d partaken in any kind of carnal knowledge, and as I stood inspecting myself in the mirror before a shower I realized that I was in desperate need of some manscaping. Luckily, I have a “personal trimmer” made for just such a task.
To aid in the cleanup of the ensuing clear cut, I decided to do the trimming in the shower. Why not? The trimmer was advertised as a wet/dry model, so I assumed that it would work in a shower. The plan was to stand outside of the spray and use the water to clear the little trimmer blades between crotch-clearing passes. This ended up being a horrible decision…
Apparently there was a “malfunction” with the trimmer and I ended up receiving an electrical shock to a region of the body that I’d never dreamed could see voltage. I was beyond pissed off. With no one to directly confront in a “loosing my shit” rampage, I did the only thing I could think to do: I sat down and wrote a strongly-worded letter…
To Whom it May Concern,
My name is Justin, and I have a serious fucking problem here. Now I know you’re probably some poor sap that has to sit around and read complaints all day and find ways to appease pissed off people in an attempt to maintain a customer service reputation. I get it. I used to be in a similar position, so I’m going to try to not make this a personal attack on your character. What I am going to do is let you know how much of a piece of sloppy monkey shit your product is, and suggest that everyone involved with its design and manufacturing punch themselves in the face. Really fucking hard.
You see, Customer Service Person, I’m a single man in his mid-thirties. I don’t know your status in life, but let me tell you – being single is tough. That’s why I was thrilled when I’d lined up a date with an attractive woman, and between you and me, she made it clear that her intentions were to get me naked and do things to me that would make our parents write us out of their collective wills. To say I was “excited” would be an understatement of vast proportions.
Not to get too personal here, Customer Service Person, but it has been too long since I’ve had a bedroom situation worth bragging about. I was planning on having a bedroom situation worth filming and putting on the internet. I was so anxious and hopeful. And then your product stepped in and said, “not so fast, Son.”
I will admit that in the months leading up to this potential encounter, my manscaping schedule had become one of laziness. Manscaping is one of those things you don’t just do because it is enjoyable. You do it because you’re planning on getting naked with another human being and no one wants their crotch to look like the back of Bigfoot’s neck.
Seeing as your product claims to be a “wet/dry” model, I decided to take my task to the shower. Granted, the current condition of my pubic region was more of a job for a garden weasel and a team of day laborers. I was still convinced that with some determination, I could return my balls to a state that didn’t resemble something you’d see in a Wookie-themed porno. After a couple of passes, everything seemed to be going according to plan. I was actually quite happy with the results. I used the hot water to rinse the blade of the trimmer and went back in for another ballhair reaping swipe, and that’s when disaster struck…
Apparently the “wet” portion of your product description is a little generous. By some horrible, satanic, Natzi-esque twist of fate, water had gotten in the case – into the shitty wiring, and when I put the head of the trimmer against my coin purse (nut sack), I received the full charge of the batteries through the trimmer blades. Directly to my balls.
I don’t know if you’re the religious sort, Customer Service Person, I personally am not. But I am pretty sure I saw Jesus when your product electrocuted my sack. I can’t be certain, but I am also 84% sure a lighting bolt shot out of the head of my penis. Luckily, I dropped the trimmer immediately, but in doing so – it shattered.
So here I am, instead of getting ready for this hot date I have pending, writing you. I’m that pissed off. Not only was it bad enough to have my taint tazed like a drunk guy on Cops, my balls look like they have the mange. How am I supposed to get down with a beautiful woman if my crotch looks like a diseased rat? Your product is quite literally murdering my sex life.
I’m not writing this letter because I want a refund, and I DAMNED sure don’t want a replacement. Discharging a lithium ion battery into my testicles is one of those things I only want to do once in a lifetime. What I do want is for you to forward this letter to your manufacturing people, and let them know I’d like them to all take a stun gun and take turns zapping their sacks until someone throws up or passes out. Then I’d like you to take my potential replacement trimmer, and send it to Guantanamo Bay with this letter so it can be used to interrogate terrorists. That’s the only feasible use for your product I can come up with.
Thank you for your time, Customer Service Person. I hope the sadistic bastards you work for pay you well.
The Guy With the Scorched Nutsack and Patchy Pubes