Physical crotch trauma is boner kryptonite, assuming your boner comes from space and is affected by the remnants of its exploded home world. It's one of the most real, immediate and awful ways your sexy time can be shut down faster than a Vatican City burlesque house. Like trying to flip an egg with a spatula that has been kicked in the nuts, trying to engage in sweet, seductive coitus with a wiener that has been kicked in the nuts is just not plausible. To the anecdotes!
And the pictures of coiled meat.
While writing Internet comedy is my cool superhero job, my real world identity has seen me do some pretty shady things to make a buck. I worked at a Staples once. On purpose. Briefly. But other jobs required me to wear shirts and ties and to move about and interact with people in a human, normal way and not like a monstrous slave to a douche corporate leviathan run by sinister, greedy cave trolls.
One fine day while out and about on a job, I came to one of those nefarious stairways that serve to boggle the mind of travelers around the globe. A staircase of about four steps, each shallow and pointless and as wide as the mighty Mississippi. And the stairs were bisected by a metal banister forged by the hands of hell's own blacksmith.
They call him ... Larry.