Top Ten

Top then things that your wife won’t believe about having a vasectomy:

10) It’s the sperm that made it taste so bad.
9) No, really, he said you need to kiss it and make it better.
8) Some shrinkage was to be expected.
7) I’m supposed to have sex or get a blow job every day for six months.
6) It’s not that I’m lazy, he just told me to take it easy for four or five years.
5) My balls still hurt.
4) The doctor said that seeing other people was good for it.
3) I need to stay away from stress, otherwise I’d be happy to go visit your family.
2) I picked up an allergy to dirty dishes during the procedure.
1) He said that it might take years for me to last longer than three seconds.

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:

“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?

Exciteable 5-year-olds mean trouble

Today, I have no son. I've been traveling on business, but today's a holiday over here, so I spent today being with my family, like a good father. I actually felt well enough to play some Wii with them, which I'd been laying off of for obvious chafing-related reasons.

We had a good time, until my son, excited by the tennis game, HIT ME IN THE STITCHES WITH THE WII REMOTE!

I’m sure it was an accident, but I will have vengeance nonetheless.

If I could have run, I would have murdered him. Unfortunately, his mother was right there to protect him, and it took me a good ten minutes to recover.

But I’m cutting him out of the will. And someday, his mother won’t be there to protect him, and then I will have my revenge.

Until then, though, we're sticking with bowling. It's much safer.

Chill, man

I’ll never eat peas again.

I just spent the whole day with frozen peas on my balls. It was my wife’s suggestion yesterday to use them to keep the swelling down (as well as numerous commentors on this very blog). I, of course, laughed it off and just spent the evening moaning on the couch.

This morning, though, when I found that instead of balls I had this big purple mass the size of a grapefruit hanging under my dick, I became interested in anti-swelling techniques. So I was happy to have the peas on my privates for the day.

And she took good care of me, bringing me drinks, not complaining about my moaning, and letting me watch whatever I wanted on TV.

You know what? Daytime TV sucks ass. Especially in Europe. Just thought I’d mention that. Thank God I work.

Vasectomy: the Director's Cut

After I write this I’m going to go whimper, but I want to set it down while it’s still seared into my mind. And not seared in the good way, like John Kerry in Cambodia, but seared in a bad way, like…well, like somebody just cut holes in my testicles.

I went in the late afternoon to find my doctor, this young guy with a thick Slavic accent, and a nurse who looked like she’d just staggered in from a rave. I stripped down and put on the little gown, and we got started.

First they throw this drape over you that looks like a fugitive from a porno movie, a big blue square with this little hole in it. I was kind of disappointed at the size of the hole, to be honest with you. Couldn’t they just print “FOR XL PENIS ONLY” on every sheet to make you feel better?

Then, the nurse puts this thing on your hip that’s cold. I mean, really cold. She shaves the affected area and tells you “this is going to be really cold.” Then she takes liquid nitrogen and pours it all over your cock and balls.

I don’t care how much of a pervert you are, if you could get aroused after all that, then they should just shoot you as a menace to society.

Now the doctor and his Slavic apprentice, who have been discussing the latest in malpractice insurance, begin.

The first step is to give you a shot in your right testicle with a needle that is as big around as a quarter. The second step is to put this clamp thing on to stretch your ball sack out so that they can get a good look at it. The third step is to cut on it for a while. You can’t feel that, since the drugs have kicked in. But you can hear it, and in some ways, that’s worse.

I spent the whole time yelling “I WANT OPTION TWO, YOU SADISTIC BASTARDS!”

Now they’re done with the right side, and you’re thinking “that wasn’t so bad.” It only took about five minutes. So they start on the left side. Because the lighting isn’t as good on that side of your body, they take your left testicle into another operating theater and work on it there.

At least, that’s what it felt like. Eventually the drugs kicked in, but there was a good 30 seconds to one minute of what felt like him trying to squeeze my testicle right out of my nut sack.

It was all I could do not to cry.

Finally they were all done. The nurse sprayed something from an aerosol can all over my dick, telling me it’d burn. It didn’t; at least, not right then. About an hour later it felt like somebody was putting cigars out on my cock. But that feeling only lasted about six hours.

Then I sat up, and the little half-gown got askew. Quickly, the nurse sprang into action and made sure that my gown was covering my privates.

You know what? After you’ve shaved my balls, bathed them in ice water, and watched two guys cut them open and pull tubing out of them, I think the moment for modesty between us has passed. Get a good eyeful, lady. If this thrills you after doing this day after day after day, more power to you.

But as for me, I’m not going to pop any boners for a week, for fear of springing a leak and bleeding out.

So I hobbled out, in my hospital-issued underwear with my balls wrapped in gauze.

I guess now I don’t have to become a priest. Which is good, since I’m not Catholic.

Say It Ain't So!

Today, I got the call. Let me tell you, my productivity is now shot since I’m filled with the existential dread that in Europe a vasectomy was the same as a castration. Don’t laugh; judging from the men here, it’s possible.

The date is set for tomorrow at 3. My balls already hurt.

Is it too late to become a priest?

Such a turn off...

My wife’s gonna kill me. I got the call from the doctor today, but it came to my cell phone and I had the ringer turned off so I missed it. He didn’t leave a message, and I tried to call back but he wasn’t there.

What if I missed my chance? What if my wife will never make love to me again?

I’m so screwed. Or not, as the case may be.

Communication Problems

Actual transcript of a conversation this afternoon:

Wife: “Did the doctor call you today?”

Me: “No, sorry.”

Wife: “Did you call him?”

Me: “Why in God’s name would I call him?”

Wife gives me stare of doom.

Me: “I mean, he’s a professional and he has an office staff and everything. He’ll call if there’s an opening, I’m sure.”

Wife: “You know I’m not having sex with you until after you’ve had the operation, right?”

Me: “Does that count blow jobs?”

Wife knees me in groin.

I sleep on couch.

I never thought I’d say this, but I hope Doctor Nuttencutt calls me tomorrow.

A brief reprieve?

I didn’t get the call today. I told my wife I was disappointed, but in reality, since I’ve been singing higher than Mariah Carey since Doctor Nuttencutt’s yesterday, I’m quite pleased with the results.

Dare I hope that the operating rooms are jammed with people who need them more, like those getting needed butt lifts or teeth whitening?

As you can tell, I’m not exactly rushing into this or anything.

The Unkindest Cut

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The Vasectomy Chronicles

A year ago my wife and I decided that it was time to get the final solution. That’s right: it was time for me to get a vasectomy. Like a good husband, I immediately began working on it. I got the number of a urologist and then didn’t call, because I sure as heck don’t want somebody cutting on my testicles.

Fast forward to this weekend, when my wife gave me this delightful ultimatum while cutting vegetables for dinner on Sunday: “you’ve got three options: you call the doctor tomorrow, we stop having sex, or you drop your pants right now and get this taken care of.”

Needless to say, I called the doctor today. Now, you have to understand that we live in Europe, home to socialized medicine and forty-minute waits just to buy something in the grocery store. So what’s the likelihood that there’s a doctor waiting to perform vasectomies on demand? I was feeling pretty smug, I tell you.

You know what? Turns out that not only is Doctor Nuttencutt available, he can see me THIS AFTERNOON for a consultation! I’m freaking out now.

But honestly, what is the likelihood that I’ll be getting cut on within the next six months? Pretty low, I’m thinking.