Tarzan swings,
Tarzan falls,
Tarzan bursts his mighty balls.

    I could never quite get my head around the idea of a man running around in the jungle in his leopard-skin underpants. I was sure he’d freeze his nuts off. Of course, people explained that it’s hot in the tropics, but the books never mentioned the heat, the white men wore suits and the women heavy dresses, and the cover illustrations and the black-and-white movies all made it seem like a cold place to me.
“I don’t understand what you were doing up the confounded tree in the first place,” my mother muttered, sitting beside the hospital bed, rattling her number eight needles in disapproval.
    “And wearing my leopard-skin knickers!” Rosely screaming in outrage. “Now I’ll have to burn them!”
    She did too. I had to admit that even at that tender age, it was a little embarrassing and far too hard to explain. And, disappointingly, I didn’t break either arm or leg—they were only badly bruised and they just kept me in one night for observation. But I just never got the hang of Tarzan, if you’ll forgive the pun.