Back by popular demand, this testicular tuesday edition is about Montana and the Christmas Balls. I've mentioned Montana before, but for those of you that don't know he is my two year old golden retriever. Last Christmas Montana wreaked havok with the bulbs on the Christmas tree. With a tail that can easily knock over three full beer bottles in a single swipe, ornaments had no chance of staying on the tree. To make matters worse, Montana is obsessed with everything balls, particularly tennis balls or anything about that size and shape (probably because he no longer has balls of his own). So not only would he knock the bulbs off the tree, he would also pick them up in his mouth, carrying them away and chew on them, breaking them into little pieces. So this year we have no bulbs on our tree, just lights and strings. Let this be a lesson to you, Polt. Sometimes a ball obsession is not a healthy thing.
(Polt's reply: Johnnie, Johnnie, Johnnie, I believe that my ball obsession and Montana's are just slighty different. I mean, I don't really want to carry the ones I get all around in mouth, nor chew on them (much), and certainly I dont want to break them into little pieces. And unlike Montana, I am still intact, as God intended. But lessons about gay obsessions from straight snot nosed little punks who are young enough to be your son and can't seem to get thier columns written on time are always appreciated.)
POLT = listening to "Where It's At" by Beck
If you dan't have anything nice to say, just keep quiet and make a face.
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