Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Chester the Molester

Imagine that you’re coming out of the little “Adult” alcove in the video store, and when you step out you see your daughter’s preschool class on a field trip led by your mother-in-law and the boss’ wife, all staring at you as you hold “Heaving Jugs 3: The Suckening” in your hands.

That’s exactly what I felt like this morning.

Today I dropped off “the sample” that will tell us whether or not my vasectomy took. There simply is no way to do this without feeling like a pervert, on the order of an old man in a raincoat waiting to flash some lady getting off the bus.

First of all, once you get the sample, you have to rush it over there like it’s a liver dedicated to Larry Hagman. And just forget about me giving you the details on how the sample was obtained: this isn’t that kind of blog.

So you’re walking to the lab with your little baggie with a sample jar of jizz inside. This is not something I do every day. Yes, I know, it’s beautiful and natural, like breastfeeding. Only if you masturbate in public then you have to register as a sex offender.

When you finally get to the lab, the woman who logs it in is always the same: a perky-breasted eighteen-year-old blond with a cherubic face who giggles a lot and manages to make you feel like a filthy old pervert. Oh, and she’s also hard of hearing, so you have to yell:


Then you have to shout your name, so everybody in the ward knows you just got your testicles cut on and that you’re walking around with a spoog cup and they better not shake your hand.

Then you get to slink out of there like you’re leaving a really seedy adult bookstore located just off a busy interstate.

After a morning like that, it’s pretty much all downhill from there, don’t you think?


Jonn Lilyea said...

Thanks for letting me relive the moment.

S. Weasel said...

Not quite the same, but when I took this job (almost 25 year ago now), the lady in personnel was quite insistent that I bring a morning urine sample to the physical. The appointment was in the afternoon, it was August and my then-employer (Dunkin' Donuts) surely would not appreciate a jar of weasel pee in the fridge, so I just carried it around in my purse.

Oh, but that was one crusty orange vessel of pee by the time 3 o'clock rolled around.

The nurse took one look at it, screwed up her face in revulsion and said, "why did you do this?"

Yeah, that personnel lady? Never liked me. I think she's dead now. Nyah!

Steve Burri said...


It is a shame that you get the most comments on posts featuring male genital mutilation.

Dollop the Trollop.

Plebian said...


I regret that I have only one set of testicles to give for my blog.