The verdict is in, Italy’s highest court has recently ruled that men may not touch their genitals in public. This touching (some call it “rearranging”) was an Italian national pastime until a few days ago:
Anyone who has seen a hearse go past in Italy, or been part of a discussion in which some terrible illness or disaster is mentioned, will know it is traditional for men to ward off ill luck with a quick grab at what are delicately called their attributi. ~ Groin turns into no-go zone for luckless Italians
It’s the end of an era. A long era.
Ironic, isn’t it, that the word “testicle” is so linked by some scholars and more than a few scalawags to the words (and concepts of) “testimony” and “testament”, although there are some doubts as to the veracity of the old chestnut that had ancient Romans grabbing their testicles in courts and public offices.
What we do know is that, in what we now know as Italy today, the genitals were always seen a sign of good luck. The picture to the right is of a plaque that would have appeared over the door to a shop, put there for good luck and good business. It’s now attracting titters in the Naples Archaeological Museum.
Times change but testicles have long gotten caught in the folds of the ridiculous clothing we are made to wear since we gave up togas.
The judges said such actions risked generating “awkwardness, disgust and disapproval in the average man”
Yes! Throw them in the clink, those of whom we disapprove!
We are going to need many clinks, me thinks. And that’s just for the government.
But seriously, what I’m wondering is this: if the US adapts such a preposterous choke hold on the art of touching oneself, what would happen to our national sport, Baseball? Not only does it get devilishly itchy under those groin-protecting and size enhancing cups, but what about the strategy propagated by the third base coach, whose signals to the batter often rely on a good scratch of the privates? What’s a batter to do? Shall he wave his big bat and whack away at balls as testament to his strength (and juices, natural or injected), or should he hold his bat erect and steady over the plate and let the balls thump daintily against it and run like the wind as they drop soft as butterflies upon the manicured turf?
It’s obvious to the most casual of observers that the judges in these cases are stark, raving mad.
Or maybe what’s been handed down is just a testament to modern idiocy.