Admittedly, my purchase of a bulletproof cup last month was a kneejerk reaction to Sophia’s target practice with her new pistol. I initially meant the item as a joke, for the most part; but I’ve since come to appreciate its precious value.
As expected, my wife thinks I’m nuts (actually, I could end the sentence there and she’d approve, but in this case there’s a specific context) spending substantial dollars on a functioning ballistic groin protector. And my habit of donning the cup every night before heading upstairs to bed annoys her to no end. Even so, she’s grown far more exasperated with my other bedtime habit. I announce my presence before mounting the stairs each night, calling out: “It’s your husband; don’t shoot!”
Sophia cavalierly dismisses any need for a bulletproof cup. She insists there’s no chance she’ll confuse me for a burglar and shoot me, much less aim for the nuts. Actually, that’s not quite true. She now concedes an accident could occur in either of two ways. If she comes to expect my staircase announcements and I forget to call ahead one night, she might mistake her husband for a burglar and commence firing. Equally, if my bedtime warnings persist, she may feel tempted to shoot knowing it’s her spouse on the stairs.
I’m willing to concede my bedtime antics are a bit much, but I’m a firm believer in “better safe than sorry.” In any event, whether I truly need a bulletproof cup to protect me from Sophia seems nearly beside the point, since the object has already demonstrated its worth under different circumstances.
I usually sit on the floor, Indian style, when my puppy and his canine pal play together. Though I know they have fun, I use the word “play” in its loosest sense. Their idea of recreation mainly involves violent wrestling and maniacal biting of each other. More importantly, Prometheus and Mr. Tootles conduct most of their wrestling and biting from within the confines of my lap.
My vantage point affords me an excellent view of the dogs’ battles, and the sight of them flailing between my legs and baring their pointy teeth as they strike always proves entertaining. It’s also terrifying … to my pecker, Little Richard. He’s convinced a mammal’s chomping canines will inadvertently decapitate him. Although I told him he’s exaggerating, I nonetheless stopped ignoring his pleas for protection after last week’s near miss — when Mr. Tootles’ snapping jaws failed to make contact with Prometheus’ leg and instead clipped one of Little Richard’s golden nuggets.
Since then, I’ve donned my ballistic groin protector before every doggy play session. And I can count three occasions where one of the puppies bit down squarely on the cup, instead of on my knob or man-berries. Still, Sophia sees my latest application of the item as no more sensible than the earlier. My response to her doesn’t entirely make sense, but I’m sure she gets the point: “Wait till a dog bites you on the balls, and then tell me you think a bulletproof cup is stupid!”
The Ballistic Groin Protector — A real lifesaver