I was worried about my sperm count, that’s why I bought the thing. That, and it was damn uncomfortable. One never knows when your wife of thirty years is going to finally grow weary of your shit and send you packing (especially when she’s a Nordic Warrior Queen) and you might have need of the swimmers again.
But don’t tell her I’m think about things like this. She might worry.
It’s like this: I write a lot, especially at night, so I usually just sit in bed with my laptop (in my lap, of course) while she watches Dancing with the Stars, Desperate Housewives, or some other equally vile crap that is slowly rotting the collective brain out of our society. And after an hour or so of this, my computer gets hot.
How hot does it get, you ask?
Well, my laptop gets so hot that, one night, I smelled the unmistakable odor of scorched pubic hair. Ouch. It was a close call, I’m telling you. So I figured I’d better protect those boys.
The next day, I went down to the local Best Buy and found one of these things. It’s called a Cool Pad. It has two tiny little fans tucked inside a heavy-duty plastic housing that, from the end, looks like an exclamation point, except without the point.
It’s a remarkable little device. Hot air comes jetting out the sides like the fires of hell, but the machine (and my lap) stay nice and cool. I highly recommend one.
Now my only fear is getting something caught in one of the fans.
I don’t think she’s that worried.