Oversized Wrinkly/Furry Ballsac

Of late, my sleep has been disturbed by the local wildlife. By local wildlife, I do not refer to lions or tigers or bears (oh my!); I am referring to a cat, somewhere in the vicinity of the 3 houses surrounding mine.

It started a few weeks ago, with funny noises all through the night ("rrrOWW! rrrOWW! rrrOWW!"). At first, I thought it was just another fight or whatever, and ignored it. But after a few nights of the same, it became apparent that it wasn't a fight. The truth revealed itself to me in an exclusive bare-all exposé that it now denies ever agreeing to (and is currently suing me over): somewhere in the locality, a cat was getting what sounded like the rutting of a lifetime. Every. Fucking. Night. (pun fully intended)

It's a very distracting thing, when your neighbors have incredibly noisy sex all night. Even if they're cats. But the most worrying aspect of this isn't it's effect on me; it's the effect on my dog.

The poor chap's hitting puberty just about now, or so the increasing number of boners would make it seem, and every time the cats go at it, he starts barking at 'em (yes, with wood). I can't really blame the guy; here he is, his canine balls just dropping, and the local music (which I'll bet he hears in exquisite detail) is more like what one would expect to hear in a Paris Hilton movie than anything. No, I'm not referring to cheesy horror flicks. You know the sorta movie I mean. Yes, porn. He's hitting puberty and there's a porno audio track going all night. That really doesn't blow, and I pity him for that.

He hasn't even got any way to relieve himself, if you catch my drift. I mean, it's one thing to be a randy SOB and have hands, but it's quite another to have a perpetual boner and nothing better than hard and sharp teeth (little sister: "Anna, what's wrong with him? Why's it all red down there?" me: "Uhhh...") with which to "scratch" his "itch", if you know what I mean.

But it's even more embarrassing (or so says a friend of mine who'd know) when the poor ol' randy SOB gets hisself some "company", and either can't get it up or can't get it in. Especially when the owner(s) is(are?) watching; the poor fellow's pride is just plain shot, no two ways about it. So here's my question to the world: just what are we, mankind, doing to alleviate those hordes of sexually frustrated domestic animals across the globe? Is it not our duty as the "higher species"? Do we not owe them a debt for being our companions through thick and thin?

For ourselves, we have Fleshlights and Viagra and all the different varieties of vibrators and other household objects, not to mention those greatest of masturbatory aids: the human hand. But what of them? It's a mark of shame for me to come home every day and see poor Rusty sitting there with a massive boner, licking his oversized wrinkly/furry ballsac, praying (panting?) for some relief. But what can one really do, short of finding him a lady friend (makeout buddies?), or "taking matters into hand"? The lack of self-abuse kits in this market is really rather appalling. Truly, a very sad state of affairs.

(I'm open to reader suggestions on self-pleasure aids for domestic animals. Any ideas, leave 'em in the comment space.)

Poem Without Plot

I wrote these lines without any plot
And can’t say what this is, only what it’s not

This isn’t an ode to the ‘beauty’ of ‘true love’
Nor one in praise of ‘powers above’

This isn’t a tale of maidens fair
With oversized towers and bleached blonde hair

War, peace, and all the rest you won’t find here
You’ll have to look elsewhere for those, my dear

Beyond mere babble, what lies within?
Nothing at all, neither virtue nor sin

Its lack of content I won’t obscure
Of that, my friend, you may be sure

This does, however, have an annoying rhyme
Which you can attribute to an excess of free time

Meter and thought, must they be done?
Not at all, these lines ain’t got none

Yeah, that was pretty crappy, I know
But I’m just playing for space…ho ho?

Ah, yes, ’tis truly a curse,
To be able to think in nought but verse

Such are the effects of Geography class
When mixed with a mind most vulgar and crass

Okay, I’ve run out of things to say
But I’ve got stuff to do anyway

So here I go, off I trot
Thus comes to an end, my poem without a plot