Yo, we just got this towel rack installed in our bathroom. Even though I was the one who asked for it to be there, I’ve already decided that nothing good can come from it because Sara and I are social people. Stick with me.

You know when you go to like, anyone’s house ever and they have little towels on a rack by the sink or one big towel kinda hanging on the door that I guess the guests are supposed to assume is clean enough to just quickly dry off on after a standard post-pee rinse?

Anytime I see a towel hanging in a bathroom, I have one thought: Balls. Towels in bathrooms have probably at some point touched someone’s balls, and when you wash your hands and then dry them with someone else’s ball germs, you’re basically like, “I want to bring my own bags to the grocery store so I don’t waste paper but I’m going to go to the Gelson’s on the other side of town in my SUV and sprinkle the road behind me with my collection of dead seals.”

And then you’re lying to yourself and the world. You’re playing like you’re clean, but you’ve got ball hands. And not even your ball hands, you know? You’ve got someone else’s ball hands and you’re spreading that around town and touching people at functions and stuff.

I realize that since neither Sara or I have these nutz that I speak of, I really don’t need to worry about ball towels in my own apartment on the day-to-day. Yet I feel like putting them out would not only show I support the idea of bathroom “guest” towels, but it would encourage potential ball activity should the situation present itself.

I’ve never had balls to rub on anything at other people’s homes, but I know I cross a lot of other boundaries in a shameless fashion. Some people do sick things in private or semi-private. There’s a chance that I could invest in an attractive set of hand towels that compliment the bathroom’s jungle theme, but then there’s also a chance that some pervert I know may roll up and just rest his sack on them because that’s how he entertains himself while he’s having downtime in the shitter. At my house? Please. I have a dog. We’re adults. I don’t think so. Get your balls off my stuff. 

Sure, you can argue that ball germs are important to building up our immune systems. It might be the accidental exposure to these ball germs that have made it possible for so many of my friends and I to survive without health insurance for so long. But I’d almost rather lick a subway platform once or twice a month for six months than run around my own parties with some friend of a friend’s testicle germs all over my gorgeous mitts.

Basically what I’m saying is is that if you come to my house, you can use the bathroom at the gas station down the street and or I’ll rip you off a single paper towel in the kitchen before I send you into my towel-free bathroom. I mean, sometimes I just use my jeans. It’s Southern California. Moist denim dries in three seconds flat and I don’t think my House of Dereon’s have even been exposed to sack.

I also might reconsider my feelings about all of this, but I doubt it. It just makes too much sense.