Beauty/Fashion News/Trending Sex and Relationships

Guess What? Scrotox Is Happening and It’s Exactly as Bizarre as You Imagine

In NYC and Los Angeles, cities where people have more money than common sense, dudes are having Botox treatments on their ballsacks.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen: Scrotox is happening.

I stumbled across the unorthodox manscaping practice in this Cosmo article.

Here’s the gist:

Weird pricks are getting weird pricks in their weird pricks. For $500-$800, cosmetic doctors are offering ‘injections below erections’ in order to rid men of the following problems:

  • Rumpled rocks
  • Puckered privates
  • Crinkled cajones
  • Withered walnuts
  • Furrowed family jewels
  • Gnarly nards
  • Haggard huevos
  • Grotesque giblets
  • Shriveled stones
  • Wilted wanker anchors
  • Decrepit danglers

According to one doctor, Scrotox smoothes out one’s testicles until they are long and wrinkle-free, making them hang “lower and looser” (picture a pair of silky, balding weasels).

To save you some time, allow me to paraphrase the experience of the Cosmo lads who put botulism in their crotchulism:

“My girlfriend wanted me to have the procedure done, because nothing turns her on quite like loose testicles. She can’t keep my balls in her purse, but this is the next best thing.”-Shewearsthepants22

“My bojangles went from looking like a pug, to looking like a scary purple dolphin. Now if only I could keep it from escaping my swim trunks when I’m at the YMCA pool.”-sacksoffender15

“Girding my loins now takes a full 30 minutes, a shovel, and a reconfigured baby Bjorn.” -gumbyjunk34

Here’s the good news about Scrotox: it will increase the size of your bulge so that you’re finally able to fill out those hammer pants from 1991.

Here’s the bad news about Scrotox: your lady will be sorely disappointed when she realizes it’s just your saggy scrote, which is not so much a moose knuckle as it is a tripping hazard. Don’t worry, you can win her back by unrolling your gonads in the manner of a Roman scroll and announcing, “Hear ye! Hear ye! By decree of Caesar, I present thee with his majesty’s royal elephant ears.”

As a married woman, I can’t imagine requesting this for my husband. How would that conversation go?

“Honey, you know that unsightly part of your anatomy–the one that looks like Yoda’s head if he were a conjoined twin? Can we make that longer and more prominent? I want the twig-and-berries to be so floppy they resemble a trio of mongooses, flailing about with such syncopation we’ll have to re-name them ‘The Flapstreet Boys.’ I want your nuts to be like a rain chain for ball sweat, or like a pair of door knockers for your butthole.”

Nope. I can’t picture ever asking my hubs to get Scrotox. Maybe that makes me a prude. Whatever. We don’t have $800 to spend all willy-nilly on his willy-nilly anyway.