Al Franken Plays With His Balls

I like Al Franken. In fact, I love him . . . in a friend way, a non-sodomizing way. I’m not gay. When I said love, I meant it in the way that one loves puppy dogs and ice cream. I’m not the least bit attracted to men, especially Franken. If I were to see a hooker with a mustache standing by a dark alleyway, I certainly wouldn’t tip her afterward.

Crap. I’ll have to write a note, reminding myself to erase this part before I put it on the site. I can’t afford to have this little awkward moment out in public view. I’ll just start anew:

I like Al Franken. He’s hilarious and insanely liberal, and he uses sheer brainpower to get his jokes and points across. He is by far my favorite author. That’s why I was so excited to attend Franken’s book signing last Friday night in Minneapolis.

I drove two and a half hours to shake his hand and get an autograph. I was even excited to pay $20 for the tiny 157-page book he was promoting. His book’s official website still had the signing listed a week prior to the event, but apparently, Franken’s plans changed.

He cancelled the signing, which was one of three planned in the Twin Cities area. The fact that there was very little or no notice given for the changes is ridiculous and inexcusable, because it made my five-hour round trip drive a big waste.

So I had no choice but to horrifically slander Franken as payback. Hence, the column title, “Al Franken Plays With His Balls”.

I don’t know if Al Franken plays with his balls. I imagine he does, because all men do. I play with my balls. You play with your balls. Stevie Wonder plays with his balls, and he can’t even see where they are.

The previous paragraph is the testimony I will likely be giving when I get sued for libel. I’ll win the case, though, because as I’ve just told you, everyone plays with their balls. And hey, if I was really trying to slander Franken, I would have titled the column, “Al Franken Plays With His Sack”. That’s a much funnier and more tasteless title.

But I didn’t name it that, because I am a good and decent man who cares about what Franken’s children will think when they read this column. Other possible horrific and much worse titles for this column could have been, “Al Franken Plays With Other People’s Balls”, “Al Franken Plays With Very Big Balls That Do Not Belong To Him” and “Al Franken: A Walking Bag of Farts”.

I am willing to give Franken a way out, of course. I will gladly retract all statements made about Franken in this column if he agrees to perform some simple tasks.

First, Franken must come to my apartment and eat a home-cooked meal with me and an assortment of my closest friends. Franken must eat all of his meal, or he will get no pudding cup for dessert. At no point during the meal will Franken be allowed to utter the phrase “This tastes like shit”.

Franken will then sign the book I bought (a lame leftover autographed copy the bookstore had), using humorous phrases and compliments to personalize the autograph directly to me. In previous autograph signings by major celebrities, I have been disappointed with the personalization, so I am taking no chances. For instance, Al Newman, a sub-par infielder for the Minnesota Twins, once personalized a photo for me with “Best Wishes, Al Newman”. This is unacceptable personalization. Chuck Nelson, a God-awful place kicker for the Minnesota Vikings, once personalized a photo for me with “Hi Paul! Chuck Nelson”. This, like the previous, is also unacceptable.

After dinner and personalization of autographs, Franken will play me in a game of “Othello”. Because no person on earth truly knows how the hell to play “Othello”, we will play the board game as if it were checkers. When this gets dull (three minutes and 15 seconds later), we will curse profusely at the board, rip it in half, toss it in the toilet, urinate on it, and play “Chutes and Ladders” instead.

I will use the “token African-American child” game piece, while Franken will use the “little red-haired girl with star pants” game piece.

After I win and do a 13-minute chuga-chuga choo-choo train celebratory dance around the rumpus room, Franken will renounce his religion and say, “Paul Ryan is now my savior, for even God, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, and Godzilla Arch Nemesis “Mothra” could not beat him at ‘Chutes and Ladders’.”

Alcoholic beverages will be consumed by all with a beer bong device until Franken collapses, vomiting all over his trademark glasses. Upon the completion of these simple tasks, Franken’s debt will be paid. His wife and children will be released from the coal mines in which they had been forced to work as slaves, and the freeze on all of Franken’s financial accounts and holdings will be lifted.

I’ll be waiting by the phone, Franken.