Expanding Horizons

My pants don’t fit me.

You might think that by saying this I’m admitting that I have perhaps put on a few pounds. Or, if you were of a more generous disposition, you might choose to believe that my pants have been washed so many times that they have shrunk down to the point where the waist-size indication label sewn in to the seem of the pants is no longer a true reflection of the actual size of the pants. However you might have thought about this statement, you would have been wrong.

So very, very wrong.

You see, I don’t actually believe that I’m getting fat or that my pants are shrinking. This stems from the indisputable fact that I have had a 32” waist for the last ten years and there is NO FRICKING WAY that I am expanding like some stupid junk food consuming human shaped balloon. I am not a balloon! I am a man! A real man, who eats steak and lifts weights and smells of strength and power!

A manly man, like a lumberjack. But without the women’s underwear.

And as a manly man, I do not get fat. I’m not a man-shaped bag of flesh that expands and contracts depending on what might be shoved down my food hole and into my energy furnace. I mean, just because I like to eat steak 5 nights a week, refuse to consume anything even remotely related to vegetables and sit on my butt for 14 hours a day doesn’t mean that I’m gaining weight. I am not getting fat, lazy and stupid. Why just yesterday I got up from my chair and turned on the TV by hand! I realize that getting off the couch and walking two steps to the TV doesn’t seem like such a big deal at first, but I’ll have you know that it’s a very deep couch. And I was lying on my side.

And I was very comfortable.

All this is evidence, evidence that can lead to only one irrefutable conclusion. And that conclusion is this; the reason my pants feel so tight on me lately is NOT due to my waist expanding. In truth, my waist has nothing to do with it at all, since it’s not at my waist that my pants feel tight. They feel tight in another place altogether and it’s in that place that I believe the expansion, or growth if you will, is occurring.

That’s right. My balls are getting bigger.

I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I am a lucky SOB. But some of you might be asking yourself, “Don’t balls stop growing after puberty?” To you I say, “Not if you’re special.” And, judging by how squashed my nads feel every time I put on my favorite jeans, I’m a very special person, indeed. So now I’ve got to go buy all new pants so that my spectacular, awe-inspiring, Nuts-O-Wonder can be comfortable as I eat my 16 oz. porterhouse steak on the couch while watching Amazing Race on TV. Yes, it’s true that being so amazingly well-endowed is a burden, but for the sake of HoBiscuit and future generations of Mighty Geeks, it’s a burden I’m willing to bear. And ladies, it’s quite natural for you to be jealous of HoBiscuit.

After all, she married me.