It takes huge balls to eat Rocky Mountain oysters

I’ve written a lot about testicles on my blog. It should probably have its own category.

After all, I have had mine punched by an angry friend.

I have seen what it feels like to have them smacked by a tennis ball at 50-mph.

And I have felt my own crushed by a kid named Timmy on the Metro.

But at least — and I say this with great pride — I’ve never eaten them.

My friends GoPats and Zamboni Ride were in Denver earlier this week working at some boring blah blah convention or something. Last Sunday afternoon, before the start of whatever they were there for, they attended a Colorado Rockies game.

While there, GoPats noticed that Coors Field’s concession stands was selling something called Rocky Mountain Oysters. You might have heard about these this week, since some news outfits have been reporting on the Denver “delicacy”.

Rocky Mountain Oysters is not seafood. It’s not even remotely pescatarian.

It is rather a misleading euphemism for bull balls.

In the face of such a possibility, the vegetarian GoPats did what anyone else would have done in his position. He challenged Zamboni to eat them.

“You try, I buy,” he told her.

No better way to spend $7.50, he told me, especially if his employers and their $6 billion endowment were footing the bill.

GoPats told me the rest of the story over e-mail:

“Zamboni ordered them. They were located right next to the fryer. She was given special sauce — looked like the same thing you would get with shrimp cocktail. I said cock.

The cashier, who wore an oxygen tank, sounded defensive when I asked if (1) only tourists ordered Rocky Mountain Oysters and (2) if anyone else had ordered them today.

They smelled bad. I mean, like old fryer grease and locker rooms. I didn’t like being near them. Covered with breading, they looked more like mushroom caps or thick disgusting potato chips. Or maybe pig balls.

Zamboni was a sport. She ate maybe three of them. She didn’t vomit, as far as I know. She didn’t really have any interest in the bed of French fries below, just like I couldn’t eat anything deep-fried for a few days after looking at the “oysters.” Actually, I’m getting nauseated again looking at the photos. This could be a new diet technique for fat asses.”

Wait, you might be thinking, there were photos? Of course! I wouldn’t disappoint my legions of readers who wake up every morning wondering, When the fuck is Arjewtino going to blog about eating bull testicles?

All photos courtesy of GoPats.

I’m not comfortable with how close the wording “Hebrew National Rockie Dog” is to “Rockie [sic] Mountain Oysters”. Eat all the bull balls you want but leave my people out of it.

If you didn’t know what they were, they look mostly harmless. Like Chicken McNuggets.

Nevermind, I said “mostly harmless”.

Zamboni is a ball buster. Literally.

Thanks, guys. I don’t think I’ll ever go to Hank’s Oyster Bar again.

P.S. When I told Denver resident The Maiden Metallurgist about GoPats’ and Zamobi Ride’s experience, I thought she would be grossed out. Instead, she said, “Rocky Mountain Oysters! Yum, deep fried and salted, taste just like fried chicken.”