And like me, you’ll probably have some hair on your ass. The area where I could have a tramp stamp looks like the Amazon rainforest. I was once paid twenty bucks by your crazy Uncle Ray to shave my ass. I want to make that clear, he paid me. He was so disgusted at the briar patch on and around my ass that he coughed up what was probably a half day’s pay at the time to see the bramble above my butthole go away.

Ray also paid our friend Dave one hundred dollars to let us shave him. Dave was a hairy motherfucker. He was somewhere between Vic Tayback and Chewbacca. So you can see why Ray would be tempted to see him bald as a baby mouse. He actually threw a Shave Dave party. I was there. Dave stood in Ray’s apartment complex driveway, Ray hit him with the hose, then we all sprayed him with shaving cream and took turns with the Bic. It was so much fun that Ray actually started roping people from his apartment building into it. There were a couple of older Asian ladies living below him who had just come back from the market. They were literally carrying grocery bags but Ray managed to charm, or bully, them into taking a turn clearing the brush from Dave’s back.

Now, when it comes to pubes, a nice trim is okay. But you don’t want to be shaved balls guy. Blades have no business that close to your business. But don’t let it overgrow either. You ever see a mailbox with the lawn overgrown around it? It makes the four-by-four post it’s sitting on look much shorter. So you get out there with the Weed Whacker and make that post look like the Washington Monument.

The good news is no one wants to see your nuts, anyway. No woman has ever said, “He had such a sexy ball sack.” Scrotum is ugly on every man. Brad Pitt’s scrotum looks the same as Dick Cheney’s. You could set up an experiment where very different famous people put their balls through holes in a piece of plywood and no one would be able to tell whose was whose. This could be a fun reality show, Celebrity Ball Sack Challenge. I don’t think anyone could correctly match the celebrity… unless we threw Lance Armstrong in the mix.

Balls are a pain in the balls. They should retract like landing gear. The sack is just this thing that can get in the way and be injured. Plus, it has more funk per square inch than a decomposing horseshoe crab.

Since I’m on your balls — sorry if that sounded weird — here’s a tip. I’ve found that a light dusting of talc down the boxer briefs will absorb any moisture and smell and give you multiple wearings. Save yourself some electricity and water. That’s the kind of environmental tip you won’t get from Al Gore. Because he free-balls it.

And on that note, let me suggest you go with boxer briefs. I have come to this conclusion after experiments with both boxers and briefs, and they truly are the best genitalia container.

I never understood boxers. They’re cool if you’re going down to the lake to swim with the chicks, but not if you’re at home alone and your dick is hanging out of the fly. That opening is like a compressed pita or one of those 1960s vagina-looking plastic change purses that you squeeze to open. My ding-a-ling would always pop out of those. So I’d have to do that two finger move where you grab the fabric and do a little butt dip to pop the dick back in. And briefs just ride up on you. I’ve never been a fan of the tighty-whitey.

But, recently, when I was looking at the pack of boxer briefs I noticed something. I had to bust out the jewelers’ loupe to figure out the size. The lettering on the box that tells you the size was literally less than an eighth of an inch. I started thinking about it. They use the same Marky Mark — esque model on the cover of all the underwear packages no matter what size. Size 28 to 32 or 48 to 52 has the same chiseled guy with the six-pack abs on the cover. What gives?

My line of men’s underpants will have a package where the model looks like he wears the underwear contained in the box. On the size 44 to 52, there will be a guy who looks like Michael Moore holding a can of Stroh’s. This would make it a hell of a lot easier to pick out your size. Instead of squinting, you would just say, “Yep, that’s what my fat ass looks like in the mirror.” It’d be a job creator, too. That way it won’t be the same hairless gay guy for every box. We could kick some of the plus-size long-haul truckers and toll-booth operators some extra work.

A nice bonus would be that my underwear line would motivate people to exercise. If you see a guy looking like John Goodman on the box of underwear you’re about to purchase, you may decide not to hit the Cinnabon on the way out of the mall and go home and do some crunches instead. It’ll be a realistic brand for your belly and butt, I’ll call it Gut ’N’ Stinc. (Say it fast, and you’ll get the joke.)

Like all young men, you’re going to be fully obsessed with losing your virginity. Don’t. It’s going to be awkward, and it’s going to end quickly, so just get it out of the way. But not too soon.

Men are to virginity what women are to pregnancy. It’s biologically driven to be incredibly important to us and there’s a window that, if you miss it, it’ll fuck you up. In either direction. If you get laid too early and too often it becomes a distraction, it feels too good and it becomes your occupation. I had friends who had the ability to play college football, on scholarship. Instead, they just spent their senior years essentially dropped out of school, because they were getting laid and that was a hell of a lot more fun than going to class or practice. But if you wait too long to do the deed, you’ll feel like a loser, it will destroy your self-esteem and you’ll be chasing it for the rest of your life.

That’s why in my will I have set aside a trust for you to spend on a whore if you’re still a virgin on your eighteenth birthday.

But be safe. I don’t think I need to give another lecture on unwanted kids. So get some condoms. And don’t feel awkward about it when you buy them. There’s no stigma to that anymore.

When he was a young man, Dr. Drew had a father who was a well-known doctor in his town. Therefore, he knew all the pharmacists. So poor little Drew had to drive to Chinatown to get his condoms without his old man finding out from his underground pharmacist network. Like a junkie, he had to head to the dicey part of town under the cloak of darkness to get his latex fix.

And don’t get all up in your head about condom size. The Magnum condom makers know what they’re doing. It was brilliant marketing, like the guys who named the Smart Car. “Hey what do you drive?” “I drive a Smart Car.” Assholes. The name Magnum is just designed to get guys to buy them. I would like to do a social experiment. I’ll open a fake convenience store and put a super-hot blonde chick behind the counter, and watch what happens when guys go in to buy condoms. It will be great to see how many of them buy the Magnums with Kate Upton behind the counter, versus the usual Indian guy.

Lamb-skin condoms must send a mixed message to guys who like to fuck sheep. And I wonder what the answer would be if you were to talk to a sheep about whether they would rather become a car-seat cover or a condom? If the sheep answers “condom,” I think we can assume that sheep is gay. Sure you’re sliding into a lady part, but you’re going to have some guy coming inside you.

And remember, please, that condoms expire. I think condoms should have a smell like milk, so you can tell when they’re no good anymore. Most people are busting out condoms in dimly lit apartments when they’re drunk and horny. They’ll never know if the thing is expired or broken. But if it stank when you tore open the package you’d know it was time to go visit the Kwik-E-Mart again.