User:Inebriated/Jacques Derrida and My Balls

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Derrida and Balls
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Author's Note

The week of May 10, 2010 was a stressful one for me. Not only was it finals week, but Uncyclopedia was contemporaneously holding their semi-annual Poo Lit Surprise competition. After spending most of the week engaged in various productive tasks, I suddenly realized I had less than forty-eight hours to write a term paper on French literary critic Jacques Derrida, and to write an Uncyclopedia article about my testicles.

I realized these momentous tasks would leave little time for sleep, so I took several dozen over-the-counter nasal decongestants to keep me alert. I also drank three bottles of cough syrup for reasons I can no longer recall. Then, I realized that sleep was actually important to mental functioning, so I downed half a dozen Ambien for good measure.

Three weeks later, when I regained something resembling normal consciousness, I realized that I had submitted the following to both my ENG 403 professor and to various Internet idiots:

edit Jacques Derrida and My Balls

Jacques Derrida is a literary critic often known as the father of deconstruction. His career in Paris began during a time when intellectuals were attempting to reconcile the divergent "phenomenological" interpretive approach, which modified the first person from an individual to generic, or collective viewpoint, with French Structuralism, a successor to existentialism which analyzed literary works based on a system of interrelated parts, arguing that their underlying structures contained meaning that transcended the literal assertions of the text and even the intentions of the author.

Woman-in-bath 001

This woman's labia resemble my scrotum.

Which brings us to my balls. My balls are contained within a fleshy sack known as the "scrotum." The scrotum is shriveled and wrinkled, much like the lips of a woman's labia after she has had a long, hot, soapy bath. The word "scrotum" is centuries old, as it is the general view that the ancient Romans pretty much fucking nailed what the ballsack should be called. Contained within my scrotum are two fleshy testicles, which I have never seen. However, in my mind's eye, I picture them as being a bright, almost neon pink, and exuberating a natural radiance which attracts even the casual observer to consider what they would feel like in his or her mouth, but preferrably hers.

Derrida threw the world of Structuralism into an uproar by posing the philosophical question: Must not every structure have a genesis, and must that genesis, itself, not also be a structure? Essentially, Derrida had found the "chicken or the egg" question that foiled structuralism and gave rise to literary deconstruction. Incidentally, the word "eggs," in Spanish, is huevos, which is commonly-accepted slang for the balls. This is because Mexicans believe the scrotum looks like it contains two eggs. They may have a point, since balls are generally spheroid and eggs are ovoid, and my testicles are decidedly ovoid. They're like little three-dimensional ellipses rotated around a locus and bursting with machismo-inducing, minty testosterone.

I say "minty" because, one time, shortly before I teabagged my ex-wife, I smeared toothpaste on the underside of my scrotum, causing her eyes to widen in surprise and, additionally, causing her to inquire of me what the fuck.

Structuralists had previously claimed that ever literary work was based in recognizable disciplines: for example Greek Mythology might have its roots in anthropology and psychology. Derrida argued, however, that such disciplines experienced movement, and every movement has a default of origin, or "textuality." For example, the movement of my balls, after they've become uncomfortable subsequent to my playing Mass Effect for four hours, has its default in origin in my finger when I poke them. It is important to poke them gently, lest I bruise them and cause my future children to have genetic mutations such as cystic fibrosis or horns.

Horny baby

¡Dios Mio! El Diablo!

Although, really, that would be pretty fucking cool to have a baby with horns. Mexicans like Jacques Derrida would explain " ¡Dios Mio! El Diablo!" Oh, wait, Derrida wasn't a Mexican; I just had that on my mind because we were discussing huevos. Derrida was actually a Sephardic Jew. I've never heard of them before, but I would like to cram my balls into the vagina of one of their women. I might have to dilate that Jew with drugs first, though. I suspect that ever since they banned partial-birth abortion, the price of those drugs has gone down.
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