From: Snook (The Elder) at Home

After my shower this morning, looking at myself nude in the bathroom mirror, I realized that my genitals are strung unusually low upon me. Now, I don’t mean that they are particularly large, and hang low in the sense of low down the length of my leg. Too many people put too much stock in big bits, and I’ll be the first to admit that I could care less. Indeed, the smaller the better, say I. Speaking as someone with the rank of Master (2nd Spatula) in many of the Kitchen Arts, I can tell you that it is of the first importance that every (what we call) “Sprout” be instilled from the very outset of his training with the certain knowledge that that which makes man “man” is often also that which makes man “dead man.” To wit: I can’t tell you how difficult it is to perform great acts of heroism, or to better mankind’s lot, when one’s rolling pin is being held for a ransom by a meat cleaver.

But I digress.

No, rather, mine are low in the sense of being attached at a lower point on my midsection than is ordinary. They’re almost right there between my legs—and lucky for me I wasn’t endowed with overgenerous thighs! Of course, my metabolism hasn’t yet slowed from its adolescent rabbit’s pace (as I’ve noticed it to do in so many of my fattening—some younger—friends). Perhaps when it does—when my skin has tautened up and out from under my ribcage—then the offending members’ll be pulled more centrewise of my underpants area. Where they’re supposed to be.