I come from a long, proud line of adjusters, men who know unequivocably where their manhood lies at all time. The men of my life are not afraid to scratch, to shift, or to gently shake their family jewels; nor are they above a stain on the crotch of a new pair of pants, a testament to a good, greasy breakfast and an insatiable, if untimely, itch.
These men will grab, grope, and gesture as the spirit moves them, proudly parading their love affair with their packages for all to see. It is in this spirit of family heritage and masculine tradition that I am pleased to announce my son, Jeffrey, has found his junk.
The tale begins innocently enough, a wee baby splashing in tub of water trying to beat the humid heat of a fledgling Pittsburgh summer. He laughs as he slaps his hands atop the pool of water, sending drops of water into his cherubic face. He kicks his feet, his formerly favorite body parts, and is overcome with a fit of joy. As he reaches down to pull on his little piggy toes …
Whoa! What is this! It’s so much closer than my toes!
He looks at me. He looks at his junk. He looks at me. He looks at his junk. He grabs ahold with a gusto, a confidence, an innate affinity that his mother will never, could never know.
And with that, my sweet Jeffrey had become a bonafide man.