It’s amazing to me that the same God who created breasts also created testicles.

That’s like Michelangelo taking time off from whittling on David to invent beer.  Something that tastes good and goes down smooth, but ultimately leads to bar fights, hangovers and a belly that resembles a municipal water storage vessel.

Breasts, at least when attached to women, are monuments to feminine perfection.  They are aesthetically stunning, reminding us of our purpose as men.  They are also tactile and warm, reminding us why we wake up each morning with inflated johnsons and a desire to rent Barb Wire yet one more time.

Testicles, not so much.  Sure, they play point guard on the procreation team, without which there would be no breasts, so let’s give them their due props.  But unlike breasts, which aside from a little post-menopausal sagging continue to deliver on their great and eternal promise, testicles always disappoint.

Breasts are worn with pride.  There are entire sections in department stores devoted to dressing them with style and grace, as well as the occasional leather and lace.  There are magazines and television programs, not to mention massive DVD collections, each in their humble way devoted to their glory.

When they are lacking, women fake their presence, either surgically or with stuffing.  This is something that has never in the history of bathing suits been attempted by a man seeking to create an illusion about his testicles.  The penis, yes, but never the balls.

Testicles are kept hidden in darkness, stuffed right next to that most foul of regions in the human body.  They have no icons, no media coverage of any kind.  When one appears in public it is not a paparazzi event, it is a felony.

Testicles can be blamed for much of what is wrong with the world today.  They are behind the proliferation of war, inner city gangs, pornography – hey, don’t blame breasts for that one; were it not for testicles we wouldn’t care – and the need to wear those uncomfortable hard plastic cups at karate class.  Testicles, or the lack thereof, are the subject of black humor and denigration, associated with one’s lack of courage or, more unfairly, the inability to respond to the very breasts we worship daily.

The wayward penis, which is behind much of this trouble, gets off pretty much scott-free.   In fact, it gets much of the credit when things go smoothly, which is perhaps why the feisty testicles have an attitude.

It’s all so unfair.

The most trouble breasts have ever caused was when Janet Jackson had a wardrobe malfunction during halftime at the Superbowl.  Which, ironically, is about the only good thing, socially-speaking, that has ever been linked to testicles.

Perhaps the worst thing about testicles is the fact that they ultimately and cruelly betray us.  They eventually shut down their ability to produce and deliver testosterone, the nectar of masculinity, into our bodies, leaving us to resort to testosterone supplements. Which means that our hairlines, our cojones and our self-image all shrink to a shadow of their former selves, our bellies bloat to Rush Limbaugh-like proportions and our ability to summon wood is as reliable as a Republican campaign promise.

This sad decline begins in our thirties, diabolically subtle at first, then increases to the point that by the time we reach retirement age in the hope of resurrecting our love of water skiing, off-track betting and reminding the wife who her daddy is, we don’t have the requisite gas in the tank.

Which is why we can thank whoever out there has come up with the phenomenon of testosterone regeneration through nutrition, natural supplementation and even the injection of it into our collective asses.  The result is a second chance at everything that makes life as a man worth living for, including the beer.

Best guess, it was a woman.  But she’s not admitting to it, for fear her sisters in menopause will confiscate her falsies and run her out of town.