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:
“I HAVE A SAMPLE OF MAN-JAM HERE FOR A POST-VASECTOMY ANALYSIS!”
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?