Southpaw or Righty: The Masturbation Conundrum
by Anthony Mason

When I attended a different school, years ago, I had a friend that lived in the dormitory with me. Let me clarify: this friend was possibly the most hygienically disturbing person you would ever want to meet. He was overweight, had horridly bad breath (I mean panic-inducing bad breath, the kind that makes babies scream and soon-to-be mothers spontaneously break their water), smelled awful, and seemed to ooze perpetual grease from his many facial eruptions, some of which I am sure were from a particularly virulent strain of streptococcus that had somehow crawled out of his throat and harvested itself on his face. In short, he was possibly the most physically disgusting person I had ever met. It’s really too bad, because he was actually quite a funny guy. Needless to say, he masturbated CONSTANTLY, due primarily to the fact no girl would even talk to him, seeing as it required a Bio-Level IV suit to be able to be with in five feet of him unless you had a cold. Trust me on the “constantly” thing—I saw the calluses to prove it. But I digress…
Being such an anti-social, uh, creature, he had anger management problems, which one day led him to punch a (brick) wall in frustration, which led him to breaking his hand in about 18 places. His right hand. The one with the Jerk-Pads. It immediately became apparent to him that his life, as he knew it then, was over. He’d have to learn a new motor skill with his left hand—the one that previously just held the soap—and ‘master’ it soon or else he might have some badddddd side effects, which I won’t go into, but I’m quite sure you can all imagine.
After a few weeks, I approached him and asked him how his hand was feeling. He said that it was still weeks ‘til he got the cast off, but that he still hadn’t quite got the hang of the whole ‘southpaw’ system.

Thinking over our conversation later that night, I came to a startlingly frightening conclusion: It could have been me in that cast! What if I damaged my favorite shower-time buddy Mr. Hand? What if I had to bring in a lefty in the middle of the game to close it out? Would I be able to do it?
So, being the forward-thinking guy I am, I immediately began a strict training regimen to prevent a lag in my sexual self-satisfaction routine (usually about once a day, twice on weekends and over breaks, just because I was back home on familiar turf). And it was hard. So hard, in fact, that it became an obsession. I went through periods where I had dreams about my testicles exploding because I couldn’t empty them out regularly enough. I would often spend a half-hour longer in the shower than was necessary just because I had to seal the deal. And then, one day, it happened: I became ambidextrous. It was one of the proudest moments of my life, to have worked so hard at something so important and to have finally succeeded. I proudly displayed my talent for my girlfriend, even put on a little humor into it as I straddled her (“he fakes right, drives left, shoots, sco-” , well, you get the picture). Oddly, she was less than impressed. Indeed, so less than impressed that I found myself single, albeit ambidextrously single, a short time later.
Well, aside from learning never to do that again with a girl, there is a very valid point to my paper, and I say it in all honesty and with great concern for my fellow man: Fellas, if you’re can’t drive the lane with either hand, start working on your game. You really might need it someday.