The man with a huge ball sack
I have a philosophy of life I call "the joke". It's not very complex: the universe is a joke (dead baby or racist? Who knows - the philosophers will argue it out). Viewed as a joke, the universe begins to make sense.
Not long ago I was at the pub, talking with a girl whose boyfriend masturbated eight times a day.
"Well he wakes up at about six," She says, "And he has a little wank, and then he goes back to sleep. And then maybe at seven thirty he wakes up again and goes to the bathroom and then has another little wank. And then he'll come back to sleep. And at maybe ten o'clock he'll wake up and have a little wank, and then he'll go to the kitchen and make himself a snack, and then he'll have a shower, and then he'll have another little wank. And that's just the morning, and then it's sexy time."
Apparently, the boyfriend has an enormous scrotum and testicles of a normal size. Something about this seems right. We know that the universe must contain a man with a huge ball sack but regular testicles - we have always known this. His capacity for masturbation must be prodigious, and here is the proof. It is very comforting to meet his girlfriend, although not the man himself. That would be like encountering the second law of thermodynamics at an evening party, sipping Irish coffee, twirling a mathematically improbable hat on the end of a cane. The scene is too real, the ontological weight is too great. To meet the girlfriend of the man with the huge ball sack is like encountering the ship-wreck - we can infer the ice-berg, our satellites have detected evidence of its presence for months, and this is the closest to proof we are comfortable to come.
Seven times, we ask?
"Eight!" She says. "And that's not counting sexy time."
His bell-end must be made of leather, we suggest.
"Suck my dick!" She laughs, and has another little drink.
Anyone who can tell me where I got the philosophy of "the joke" from wins a warm feeling of self-satisfaction.