Keith Olbermann Prays For Quick Testicular Pain Relief

Dear God,

I’ve asked you repeatedly again and again and again and again and again, but you haven’t delivered. Why must I endure this pain? You know I’m a good person. You must have seen my “special hour” comment on health care reform, right? It was the best show I’ve done in my career. What more you want? Don’t you appreciate anything I do?

But don’t you know my ratings have been nothing short of spectacular since January? My reruns are killing our competitors in the same time slot, for crying out loud! Everything seems on the up and up, except THE. PAIN. IN. MY. BALLS!!! Christ, it’s like molten glass pouring out of my testicles! Please send an angel to chop them off. NOW!!!

Look, what’s a kid to do after collecting baseball cards? How did you really expect I interact with other adolescents? Ballet? No, we rat-tailed each other, alright? How many times must I spell it out? We meant to turn each other into real men. The kind of men that can take it and keep taking it until you must take it and take it some more… Man’s men!

Like I’ve said, it was a game you play to increase camaraderie. Looking back, I see the point of no return. We purposefully aimed for each others’ groins, okay? And I was the best at it. What can I say? I had skills. I could dish and take. It’s not much of a secret: my success was the icy water cooler. THWACK!!! Icicle towel whip to the balls!

I admit the “icy tail” made my friends bleed on more than one occasion. One kid got a deep gash that took – I don’t remember – like maybe 14 stitches to patch? You should know. You were there. After, no one wanted to play with me. But I knew they respected me secretly. I NAILED that kid. I’m a legend. Him, too. We’re urban legendary!

So how could I stop? I couldn’t. That’s not how I was raised. In my house, if you’re the best at something, playing below your potential is a sin. “You’re no pussy. You’re an Olbermann!” From there, I spiraled – taking my aggression out on myself. I didn’t think it was a problem at first. I was “experimenting.” Over time, my body learned to like it.

I must say it felt good putting pressure on my sack. It lessened the load of being ignored all the time. I nearly lost both testes, had it not been for a buddy who intervened. My hand had cut off so much of the circulation… It was the deepest blue I’d ever seen. So cool! I, however, was too young to understand or foresee the problem of balloon balls.

I had built up so much endurance that nothing fazed me. There’s not a vacuum cleaner on Earth I can’t handle. Webster’s Dictionary? Ha! No problem. I could withstand up to eight volumes of The Encyclopedia Britannica slammed on my gonads – as a junior in high school! “Mind over matter over mind over matter over mind over matter” was my mantra. Unfortunately, that’s not the case any more after “the incident.”

I wasn’t going to request it, but I feel I must. I pray for a small, twin engine prop airplane to crash into my enflammed crotch. I NEED THIS! My balls have been constantly throbbing since my NYC subway train “accident.” I’m convinced a new “accident” will get the job done. Any accident will do. A school bus. ANYTHING!!! I’m such a coward. I can’t bring my own hand to lop them off to save my life. Hopefully, this is my last “cry for help!”

I can’t “come out” either. My balls are so disgustingly huge that a PSA would make everybody puke. And I’m no Glenn Beck or Oprah. I won’t parade my personal, corporal affliction to up my ratings. Hey, I can do without my “super powers,” too. Because of me, our show reported that some conservative operative would bash President Obama for honoring the troops at Dover Air Force Base, though we didn’t know it would be Liz Cheney. I can’t be blamed for any of this.

God, we both know that no one needs “magic balls” to predict what conservatives will do and say. It’s obvious by their political situation. But it’s true that I whack them for hours and hours, drain my nut-sack, and then drink the green fluid straight. What kind of “power” is that? It’s putrid! Why my bosses believe in this farce of a fortune-telling process is beyond me. But it pays my bills – and attracts women.

I can’t tell you how many of the ladies have fallen for it, though you know. You have to know. But I’m worried about my current girl. I really like her, but I know she is going to leave me. She has told me she is sick of me playing “The Oracle at MSNBC.” I don’t blame her. Do you even know what kind of fucked up deity you are to have my loved ones believe I’m drinking my own hallucinogenic nut-puss night after night?

I stand for the common good – and in public! That’s no small feat for cable television. But Jesus, is this worth it? Is compensating for grotesque gonads with such a malicious charade all that it’s cracked up to be? No. I’ve had my fun, my fame, my fortune. It’s over. She means too much to me. She’s the type who will break my balls before breaking my heart, if you know what I mean. You must know what I mean.

This must be done quickly. I don’t know how long I can hide these secrets. There’s only so much we can do to cover them up in the studio anymore. Back when I was on ESPN, they were still small enough to manage behind the cardboard crate we called a news desk. Now with digital technology, we can erase them from view. So far, I’ve avoided meeting most guests face-to-face, except on Letterman when we shoot in front of a green screen.

I can’t complain too much about my crew. I’ve heard they have jokingly referred to them as “tiny zeppelins,” even though my desk sits at the same height above ground as the forehead of an adult male African elephant. But as long as they keep quiet, it’s all good. Chuck is another story. Had he squealed to the higher ups… But we have very little time anyway.

All I ask is for you to take my nads before the studio moves to the airplane hanger next week. It’s too late to make them stop burning like hell. Their growth has gotten out of control. I don’t care if my ratings slip to Bill O’Reilly. It’s the peace of mind that’s more important. I want a normal life. Don’t rob me out of that chance. I’m still a virgin for Christ’s sake!!! I’m willing to lose it all by admitting that much should she read this.

Please, Lord, I plead with you. Please deliver me from this horror. Please put my balls out of their misery, not for my sake but for hers. I want to keep her. If not, I know that my testicles are in your Almighty Hands. Do with them as you wish. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But if possible, when you remove them, could you have them bronzed and hung from Rupert Murdoch’s chin for forever and ever?

To recap: Don’t tell the public of my shamefully hideous gonads. Don’t tell my bosses that I can’t predict the future with them. Don’t tell my ex-girlfriends that my nut puss never had hallucinogenic properties. Let my current girlfriend believe I’m a sex god. Forgive me for ripping out Chuck’s tongue with pliers. And last but not least, tear my balls off as soon as possible. I promise not to complain of “phantom limb” pains after they’re gone. I’ll manage.

Yours In Eternal Love,
Keith T. Olbermann