This Cake's Got Balls. (No, Like Literally.)

Hey, do you know what Truck Nuts are?

If you do, congrats, you're from the South like me. YEEHAW AND HOWDY.

For the rest of you, Truck Nuts are dangling testicles for your truck. I wish I was making this up.

Anyway, the reason I mention Truck Nuts (besides seeing how many times I can type "Truck Nuts" in this post) is because NOW THEY MAKE THEM FOR CAKES, and the world will never be same.

(Hamilton high five heyooooo)

(Truck Nuts Truck Nuts Truck Nuts Truck Nuts)

(Ahem.)

Y'all ready for this?

Keep scrolling; this needs a proper build up.

And while I've got you here, I'm open to suggestions on how to post this to Facebook without getting banned.

Again.

(Lousy naked turkey cake.)

Almost there, now.

Still ready?

Here we go:

But not like that.

Ew.

OK, for real now:

Great Blushing Beefy Bow-Balls, Batman!

I'll give you a moment.

Honestly, there's something almost poetic about a sparkly pink cake with balls. It says, "Hey, I like sparkly pink cake and bows, AND I HAVE BALLS." Y'know? [nodding] Yeah. I like that.

Thanks to Rebecca H. for really busting our preconceived ideas about masculinity.

I Tell You What, OW

Over the weekend I slept on my neck wrong - I guess 42 years of practice just isn't enough - so to turn my head I had to move like Michael Keaton's Batman, lurching my whole torso around.

Me, stiffly staring 3 feet to the left of where John is standing: "Could you please move 3 feet to the right."

After 2 days of this, I went to stretch a little while talking to John... and threw out my upper back.

I swear this never happens to me.

I was supposed to be writing posts at the time, so John loaded me up on hot packs and smelly tingle creams* and pain meds, but no matter how I tried to sit I ended up looking like this:

"ow ow ow ow owowoowowowow"

[* "Smelly Tingle Creams" is the title of my Jake Peralta cover band]

[Also that joke has many layers to keep it family-friendly. You're welcome.]

Eventually all that stuff kicked in, though, and here I am, happy as a bruised hard-boiled egg being thrown in a puddle:

No wait, happy as a panicked Ernie from Sesame Street... being thrown in a puddle:

No wait, happy as a crab who's just realized life is a never-ending quagmire of moral ambiguity and socially dissociative experiences interspersed with physical pains... but at least we still have brownies.

... in a puddle.

Dang, this smelly tingle cream is good stuff.

Thanks to Anony M., Elizabeth A., Megan H., Kristy L., Beth S., & Caroline H. for letting me work out my crabbiness.

And from my other blog, Epbot: