“Turn your head and cough.”
It was annual physical week for all the school-age children in Arcadia, and that must have been at least the two hundredth time I had asked that question that day.
It was high education day, so I was tasked with ensuring all the boys’ health by Zeus.
I felt like a circus act with all the balls I had been juggling that day, but it didn’t stop little Finn from hacking up a lugie right in my face when he did as instructed.
Finn was an odd case.
Although he was an upperclassman, he was shorter than the rest of the boys in school and he still sang soprano in choir.
And when he coughed, I noticed something that wasn’t apparent with the other boys his age:
Cryptorchidism.
Finn’s testicles never dropped.
And at this point it was unlikely they ever would.
You could say it wasn’t Finn’s lucky day.
Finn reminds me of a couple of wee lads around here.
They’re not children, though they’re markedly shorter than the rest of us Titans, and based on their putrid breath and the numerous skin tags that engross their epidermis, I’d wager they’re due for a physical.
But they’re immature.
Of the two of them, the feistier one with bravado likes to run his mouth. On more than one occasion I’ve witnessed him threaten to expose his little knick knack at this poor ditsy girl who didn’t quite know what to make of his advances.
The other leprechaun aimlessly follows the first around, tallying up all the trouble they get into to account for credits they owe. And he never stands up to the dominant one, even when he’s given a good whack on the head.
One quick assessment will reveal their lack of testicles, each in their own presentation.
Knick Knack, your aggression and anger issues clearly stem from your misfortunes in your knickers. You boss your brother around so you can feel big, but all those feelings of superiority will never fill that empty treasure chest of yours.
Tallywhack, if I were to scan you, the imaging would reveal that not only have your balls never dropped, but also that you never had anything there that could have descended to begin with.
If I could pick a four leaf clover and cut it in half to give you each something that resembles two dangling credits that you could stuff in your sack, I would.
But I’m never that lucky.
So instead at Clash 303, I’ll have Nurse Frightengale escort you two hooligans into my office for your physicals.
There, my associate El Mariachi Muerte will induce you into anesthetic bliss with his dulcet guitar strings.
Singing and jigging along in your soprano ranges like a drunken sideshow, your voices will drift away with your consciousness as you fall asleep on the operating table.
And when you awake, what you both have been chasing and wishing for can finally be found at the end of the rainbow in your pots of gold:
Lucky charms.
Just remember they’re synthetic, so don’t cough too hard or you might dislodge them.