This is my idea for a reality show. It's called “Balls OUT!!”
Now, before I get started, I just want to state right up front that this is a real idea. What I'm proposing here is the way it should really happen, exactly as written. This is not one of those fake, semi-scripted reality shows or anything stupid like that. This is exactly the way it should go down, to the letter. I just want to be clear. So...
"Balls OUT!!" is the ultimate he-man Feats of Strength-style talent competition, far beyond the limits of human endurance. It's seriously super hard, like that Tough Mudder deal, where you crawl under electrified barbed wire in black mamba-infested raw sewage and sharpshooting Navy SEAL snipers are zinging .50 caliber depleted uranium-tipped hollow point bullets half an inch in front of your face while your mother tracks your progress along on the sidelines, shouting, "You should have been a doctor!" and "Why don't you move back home and start a family and go to church?" Real tough stuff like that, only more so.
So we start out with ten, maybe twenty guys, I don't know, real tough fockers, and then in a couple of weeks or whatever we narrow it down to like three or five guys, however these kind of shows work, I have no idea. And then we take those let's say three guys aside and say, Look, the next stage is going to get even more intense and punishing, so we need you to get a comprehensive physical, and so we send them to our fake doctor guy, some actor from Van Nuys or something, who does all kind of fake blood work and fake stress tests and fake barium enemas, the whole fake physical shooting match.
The Bad News
Then (here we go!) a few days later, we take one of the guys aside, probably the one we've deemed most likely to get all emotional, and say, Hey, uh, the doctor said he needed to talk to you right away, and so we whisk the guy back to the fake doctor, cameras in tow, and the doctor tells him, Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm 99.99% sure you have testicular cancer, in the right one (your right not mine), and I strongly recommend that we remove it immediately, absolutely no later than tomorrow, before it spreads. The guy is crushed, totally beside himself. He goes out with his friends and gets drunk and cries in his beer like a little girl. "I'm so young! Why me?!" etc. etc., and all across America, people are emotionally invested in this guy, start to finish. It's really great television. It's got Emmy written all over it.
(Now, of course, we would have to have all the contestants sign a waiver before the show even starts filming that says something like, no matter what happens you have to go with it, you can't sue if things don't go the way we said they were going to go, if we change the narrative of the show, stuff like that. Guaranteed they'd be so psyched just for the chance to be on the show that they couldn't even conceive of something like a fake doctor fake testicular cancer thing and they'd sign whatever you put in front of them just as long as you call it, "The Standard Boilerplate Deal." In fact, put that right at the top of the waiver, as the first heading: The Standard Boilerplate Deal.)
boilerplate (n.); 1840, from a literal meaning, "metal rolled in large, flat plates for use in making steam boilers." The connecting notion is probably of sturdiness or reusability.
(cf. Online Etymology Dictionary)
So now it's the day of the orchidectomy and we bring the guy to the doctor's office for the outpatient procedure, and the doctor's all fake actor excited, "I have some great news for you! We made a mistake! Your balls are perfectly healthy!" He says something like, an intern read the test results wrong, a simple math error, forgot to carry the one, blah blah blah. The doctor apologizes up and down but the guy is so excited he doesn't really care. Saved from the gallows! A last minute reprieve! And so he goes out drinking again with his friends and the producers and the other two contestants and there's a big celebration, karaoke, dancing on the tables, beer spilling all over the place, and everyone's super excited that they can return to the show and the Feats of Strength and that's the end of that, right?
Well, not so fast. Here's the closer. The head producer lady from the network takes the guy aside a couple days later and says, Listen: our viewership went through the roof when you were an emotional testicular cancer mess. Everyone in the friggin' United States was crying along with you and your whole life and death human drama yadda yadda thing. But now, well, quite frankly, our ratings are getting a little saggy, like an octogenarian scrotum that's been soaking in the tub for too long. So we want to reboot the whole show, keep the heat on you! Our star! You're the man! The people love you!
So here's what we're thinking: we setup one of those audience participation American Idol-style text voting things, and we put it out to America: Should he still get the right one snipped off if we pay him one million bucks? And if the majority of the audience says yes, you go through with it. It's that simple! Heck, we'll even give you two million if you do both! You'll get a new fake one, no charge to you, or two, totally your call, it's really amazing what they can do with fake testicles these days, they look and feel soooo unbelievably real. We'll even freeze your sperm— again, no charge, on the house—so if you ever want to have kids some day you can just do the whole in vitro thing, no biggee.
Think of it this way: you've already been through the emotional agony of the thought of having it removed, so why not actually go through with it, if that's what America wants? What are you, some kind of socialist? You believe in democracy, right? You do it live, on the air, the way the Founding Fathers would have wanted it, and we hand you one of those ginormous Publisher's Clearing House checks once it's snipped—in fact, at the exact moment it's snipped— and you're an instant millionaire! Then we'll do the season finale on Thanksgiving so you can be with your family sitting around the table eating turkey and stuffing and Uncle Joe's special cranberry sauce and everyone's as happy as they've ever been because you were able to pay off your parent's mortgage and get braces for your little brother and bail your asswipe brother-in-law out of jail, all in time for the holidays. Then everyone sings, "We Gather Together," even grandma in her tone-deaf crackling Florence Foster Jenkins soprano, as we fade out to the Infiniti QX80 commercial.
So that's it, that's my reality show. That's "Balls OUT!!" So the question to you, male readers of this blog, is this: would you do it? Personally, my balls are still on the fence. A million bucks, that's not a lot of money these days, at least in this part of the world. Two million, well... I'd have to think about it. I'd seriously have to think about it. Leave your thoughts and comments!