Staff Pick*
My Italian Handyman and Intermittent Arch-Enemy Told Me: “It’s Time to Wash Your Balls”
Initially, I took deep offense. In Italian. Which requires at least 3 hand gestures and a refusal to meet for Espresso.
I did not refuse the GRAPPA though, that would be a bridge too far.
After giving him the sideways bombastic offensive death stare I pointedly informed him that I had done it in early July. It was now only the 5th of August. There was no way they were dirty already.
He still insisted,
“They’ss durrrty Bru’che, I know this, I canna see isa no cleanest,” my handyman insisted.
How did he know?
He doesn’t know. How could he know?
It is hot in Italy. Really hot. Maybe my balls were working overtime without me knowing.
We enjoy a love-hate relationship. I love when he comes to my aid, and I hate when he informs the world he helped me so he can garner all the credit. It’s the way he says “Helped me”, it leaves nothing to the imagination other than he did everything and I was a useless bystander. He is so conceited.
