Dear Balls,

Your stench is unbearable.  During certain hours of the day, your noxious odors waft north towards me, and I believe I would find the scent of a dozen rotten cattle carcasses in a sauna more agreeable than your nauseating perfume.  Please, I implore you:  do not shy away or retract when the host offers the medicated powder goodness of the Gold Bond to you.

But the sickening and overpowering scent of your rot is but one issue of many I need to address with you.  I have heard grumblings from below of a supposed favoritism of one ball over the other.  Just because I hang out with Left Ball more than you, Right Ball, does not mean I like him more.  I'm crooked.  I've always been this way.  Let it be known that is not a 'defect' or other such nonsense.  Like parabolic skis, or curved hockey sticks, my unique…slant, is the surely the result of eons of natural selection.  Of this, I am positive.  Further discussion on the matter is moot.  I am perfect.  That is why the host lavishes so much attention upon me. 

Please just accept without reservation my inherent inclination to drape to the left.  That's just how I like to relax.  Also, you can dial down the production of..you know..that stuff you produce.  The shit is worthless and wholly without value, at least for now it is.  I feel obligated to let you in on a little secret.  It just gets thrown away, or given away as a "gift', which the receipient never, ever seems to enjoy.  So why bother?

We do have one complaint in common.  Like yourselves, I find the host's proclivity for pinching us betwixt his woolly legs grossly degrading.  Very uncomfortable as well.  Furthermore, I find your neighbor, the taint, to be a filthy and uncultured companion, though I see you both share the same noticable lack of appreciation for hygiene and cleanliness.  Maybe that is why you can co-habitate in such close proximity without coming to blows?  I thank the creator every day for providing you as a buffer to shield that despicable thing from my gaze.

Also, both of you:  quit sticking to our host's legs.  He finds it irritating, and I'm tired of being used as a pry bar to seperate you two from his impeccably chiseled thighs.  I have more important things I could be doing.  Like vaginal spleunking.  A refined and satisfying recreation you shall never know the joys of.  Suckers.

For the record, just because you are freshly shorn does not mean the host finds you more attractive, or useful than me.  He simply believes you are hideous — the Quasimodo to my Esmeralda —  though slightly less hideous sans unkempt, coarse pubic afro. 

That is all for now.  Please take proper charge to remedy these grievances with haste.  I would continue on with a more detailed chronicle of faults, but it seems the sitcom our host is watching has broke for commercial, and he wishes to exercise me.

Regards,
The Penis.