4 Things You'd Never Guess About The Opposite Sex's Crotch

What do I mean vanish? I mean take the fuck off. Pack up their bindle stick and head out for a life on the road. And it's only ever one at a time, as though your nuts had a heated argument and one forced the other to go spend the night at its parents' house. So your sack will still be slouching there against your thigh like a drunk trying to stay on the dance floor, and one ball will be holed up in there like the Unabomber in his shack. The other one will be three fingers deep in your torso, exploring the nooks and crannies of whatever the fuck is equidistant between your dick and your butthole.

To the best of my knowledge, your balls will occasionally rise up like the disgruntled citizens of an unjust regime, but it's generally for warmth. This isn't that. This is like a lava lamp situation, with blorpy stuff just oozing about because it can, no real rhyme or reason behind it. The little vagrant will always return home in short order, no worse for the wear and tight lipped about what sights he may have seen. But know that sometimes, when you least expect it, there's a nut that's just gone walkabout like a little semen-producing Crocodile Dundee.

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In technical terms, they call this a retractile testicle, which is a great name. Your cremaster muscle gets a little overactive, like how if you work out too hard and you're super pumped, your biceps and triceps will just totally rage in a spastic fashion. Only this time, it's in your bag, and your nut will just zip up like a monkey on a vine. It can happen due to anxiety or just some stimulation in that area. So nothing crazy or darkly magical, just some crazy ball roaming.

How does pain manage to dance with boners in people who don't typically get off on pain? That's one of the mysteries of science, but any number of uncomfortable feelings from anxiety to nervousness to just outright agony can and will give way to Mr. Blinky standing tall and trying to do his thing, even if the rest of your body is a quivering mass of discomfort.

In terms of injuries, it can be a matter as simple as a blood-flow problem -- you damage a wang artery, the blood can't flow the way it should, you end up saluting the flag every time you move. But when that's not the case, the cause can sometimes be a mystery to medical science -- your dick plays its cards close to the balls and doesn't explain itself all that often.

WikiImages/Pixabay

Most men, at some point, will be tasked with purchasing pads for someone in need. It happens. In the world of sitcoms, it's a terribly embarrassing endeavor and you must sheepishly enter the aisle and pretend you're shopping for something else and then look like a deer caught in the headlights when the cashier inevitably calls for a price check. On pads! For vaginas! Oh man, is your face red! THE BEER BACON MANLY MAN IS BUYING THE LADY OBJECTS. PLANT A SCARLET LETTER UPON HIS CHEST.

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In real life, buying pads is like buying something that isn't a pad. However, and this is key, while you were probably told exactly what kind to buy, if they don't have what you're looking for, if you forget, or if nothing was specified for some reason, you have no chance of choosing the right one. Pads are like the Grail at the end of Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade. There's a ton of choices and if you choose poorly, expect to become a dusty skeleton in no time under the withering glare of the woman you've just disappointed.

In my mind, pads operate like deodorant or the Walmart underwear rack. Sure I see a lot of options, but at the end of the day, I can probably make due with anything that's there. But holy shit, not so with pads. Despite your general knowledge of a woman's flower and its botanical habit of sloughing off an internal uterine layer, not every pad can accommodate this for every woman. Wings may be necessary to anchor that slippery little shit in place. You also need to factor in absorbency based on flow, the shape of the pad, the fabric of the pad, and the general way it fits because you never want to try to fit a square peg in a round hole, especially if you have the wrong-sized pad wrapped around it.

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There's literally no way you can get the correct pad on a whim as a dude except for blind luck. You have to have instruction or you might as well be trying to figure out what your cat means when it turns its head and stares at you all shifty-like when you're on the toilet.

OrsiO/Pixabay

It's not that I or any man is necessarily dumb for not "getting" pads. It's just that there's no common ground to meet on. I can only conceive of, in the most basic way, the issues with trying to properly fit something on or near a body part I don't have. I can't even decide if "on" or "near" are the right words to use, that's how unqualified I am to deal with this.

Surely we can all be adults when we discuss flatulence, or "floating air biscuits," if you will. Who amongst us hasn't gorged themselves on a hearty baked bean and cauliflower casserole laced with vegan ham and awoken the next morning feeling like a gremlin was trying to breakdance its way from our asshole? Farts are natural and beautiful in the way that any kind of fetid gas from one's shit shooter is beautiful.

There is a thing I learned, though. A thing told to me by a woman who, upon learning the topic of this article, took a moment to stare off into space as she pondered the idea. After a brief period of silence, her expression became inspired and she eagerly said to me, "What about farts in your vagina?"

First, I hope that was the first time that sentence was ever uttered aloud. I get a kick out of feeling like I've heard or said something literally no one in mankind's history has ever seen or heard. But second, I was briefly confused.

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"Queefs?" I asked, as if it was the most natural follow up in a normal conversation. She shook her head.

"Gross, no. OK, sometimes, as a woman, when you fart it maybe goes forward instead of back? And it can sneak into your vagina."

I stared as though I were Paul Atreides having just consumed the Water of Life and my mind was expanding beyond space and time. I imagined a stealthy fart creeping forth under the cover of night, holding up at the border of the ass cheeks until the Vaginal Guards had a shift change, then sneaking like a ninja across the Taint Barrier and backflipping into the safety of the vagina.

"What does it do once it gets in there?" I asked, enraptured. Her expression changed to one I'm all too familiar with. One that says "Please stop speaking."

"What do you think it does? It's not a DJ, it's not having a party. It just gets stuck. You have to kind of shift and shimmy a bit to force it back out."

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I nodded. This was reasonable. Not reasonable, but understandable. A woman, biologically, has a terrible system of fart management set up down there. As a man, when one of my farts takes a wrong turn out of the gate, it just bubbles up under my ballsack and sits there like a frightened mouse until I peel the sack away from the thigh and release it back into the wild. But a woman has an entire mouse house. I had never imagined.

Briefly, I wondered if I'd ever been visiting the enchanted grotto when there was an unwanted guest in the pantry, but then shrugged it off. Best not to know, probably.

The proliferation of beer pong and craft beer may have you think that we're living in one of the peak times to get drunk, but humans have been getting famously hammered for millennia. Like a frat house's lawn after a kegger, history is littered with world changing events that were secretly powered by booze. The inaugural games of the Roman Coliseum, the drafting of the US Constitution and the Russian Revolution were all capped off by major parties that most attendees probably regretted in the morning.

Join Jack O'Brien and Cracked staffers Carmen Angelica, Alex Schmidt, Michael Swaim, plus comedian Blake Wexler for a retelling of history's biggest moments you didn't realize everyone was drunk for.

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