When's God Gonna
Quit Bustin' My Balls?
the commune's Vinnie Carbone shouts back at the darkness 

Monday, Jul. 16, 2001
I’m not a bad guy, I go to church, I pay my taxes, so what I wanna know is: Hey, when’s God gonna stop bustin’ my balls? I swear, I get home from work and my belt sander throws a gear, my wife wants me to take her to see Ricky Martin, and my son, dat little tree yeah old fairy climbed inside a spare tire in the back yard and he won’t come out for nothin’.

"Hey-oh, ay, those’re my balls you’re tramplin on up there, big guy! They’re the ones that are all blue and swollen from bein’ stepped on too much, ya big bum...". Not that I got a thing against God, mind you. Me and the big guy go way back to the third grade when I went to ask Wendy Fischer out onna date and when I sat down in the next seat over from her, some sick sonnofabitch had pissed the chair, I swear to Christ almighty, he was bustin my tiny, hairless balls even back then. I had to sit in dat chair straight through lunch and for the rest of the day until all the others kids had gone home so nobody could see that my trousers was as wet as Tony Danza’s back in a raquetball match.

That’s some serious stuff for a kid, too, let me tell you that. As an adult, you piss yourself and you can play it off, like "Woah! That Lowenbrau snuck up on me! I ain’t been this drunk since da eighth grade graduation!" and that kinda thing. As a kid though, it’s taken more as a sign that you ain’t never mastered your bladder control and the cheetahs is gonna thin you out from the herd, boy.

One thing I gotta hand it to God, that guy’s one hard-workin SOB! He ain’t laid off bustin my balls for 34 years, and just when I think he’s takin a break, my collie upchucks a canna Manwich onto my new Camaro’s suede seats. You couldn’t WRITE better ball-bustin’ than that.

Even when I was inna prime a my life, eighteen yeahs old, God was there with a bicycle seat and a faulty retaining bolt. Me and Marie, we was goin’ steady, and lemmie tell you we was goin’ at it. We would have sex at the drop of a hat, and believe you me there was a lotta hat-droppin goin on back den. But we was safe about it, y’know? A Carbone don’t ever go into battle unarmed, if you know what I mean when I say that. I always make sure Marie used a rubber, and so I figure we ain’t got nuthin to worry about, right? Wrong. Turns out the dumb broad was eatin’ the damn things, one of her girlfriends said somethin about oral contraceptives and she got all confused. Next thing we know, bang-bang, we got little Ant’ny taggin along and whenever Marie’s got gas it’s like a little kid’s birthday party around here.

Now I ain’t sayin I don’t love Marie, and know dat I’m just talkin here just to talk so lemmie talk, but that woman’s got about as much sense as a two-legged gopher tap-dancin in a microwave. Or two mountain goats screwin’ on the Eiffel Tower, I dunno, somethin like that. Point is she’s dumb as shit. We understand each other heah? Good, ‘cause nows I can go on about God and my balls and stuff.

God continued to bust my much-maligned balls trew most of the 1980’s. Memorable events include da time da Anaheim Angels kicked my motherlovin ass for pukin’ in their dugout, da tree months I spent in jail for exposing myself to a boyscout troop, and dat time I came home to da wrong house and ended up punching out a pony and givin’ tree armed policemen wedgies after they say I ruin some little girl’s birthday party. I spend the weekend in the can after that little caper, but thankfully I’d stuffed enough hot dogs down my shorts on the way out that I was eatin’ like a king da whole time.

But don’t think that God’s Carbone-ball-bustin’ plans ended with the era of Regan and bolo ties and all that. Uh-uh. God kept his ping-pong paddle at the ready next to my family jewels for the whole of the new decade as well. Like the time I got caught in that pair of panty hoes with that wild boar, for instance. Or the time I was up on da roof, drunk as hell, tearin’ off roof tiles with my golf cleats, and I’ll be Goddamned if a stiff wind didn’t pick right up and make me take a header off that roof and land on some little old lady who’d come by to sell Amway. For six hours I hadta listen to her bitchin’ and moanin like "I think you broke my back! My ribs have perforated my lungs!" Jesus Christ, lady, do I look like a doctor to you? It took damn near forever for the paramedics to get there and a good four hours for them jaws of life to pull her on up outta da sidewalk. Dey almost had to drill under my foundation, the sonsa bitches. It’s a rare time like that when God misses a chance to bust my balls further. He musta been off planning the Manwich thing.

The 90’s ball-busting that takes the cake though, has to be the time Marie ran outta them contraceptive sponges, and she thought onea them kitchen sink sponges with the green scrubber side would do the trick just as good. Did I mention that Marie’s dumber than ten pounds of dirt? When it was all said an done she was pregnant with lil’ Jimmy over there and I hadta wear them elasticy beach pants for two months. Jimmy! Get outta the oven, Jimmy! You’re too old to play in da oven now, ya little hangnail ya. There’re snakes in there, howya like that? Yeah, I thought so.

I wondered all my life, when God’s gonna stop breakin my balls. But ya know what? I’m tired of wonderin’. Vinnie Carbone’s got a plan. See, I plan on bein extra special nice and good and all that shit my remainin’ years of this life. So as I can get into heaven and all, that kinda thing. Then, when I meet God, you can bet I’m gonna give him one hell of a kick right in his hairy, omnipotent sack. I’m gonna strike a blow for the Vinnie Carbones of the world, and then I’m gonna say "Sorry God, but you was breakin’ my balls, you was askin for it." And we gonna shake on it and go out for beer and pizza. It’s gonna be nice.