Your guide to stop making babies begins right here: CHOP.
Yes. Your junk.
Your guide to stop making babies begins right here: CHOP.
Yes. Your junk.
After the second round of testicular testing, the results of my vasectomy are in!
First, I had somebody cut open my cuddlies and clip my cockles. Then over the next few months, I was ordered to break the intergalactic masturbation record. I succeeded. You should see the trophy.
After the awards ceremony, the good doctor wanted to make sure all the nut nicks weren’t for naught. So I supplied a semen sample, and it was sent to the sperm-counting experts down at the lab. Two weeks later, I did it again – for a different lab. With different experts.
Then, it was out of my hands. Literally.
Of course, the waiting process made me a little anxious – testy, if you will. There doesn’t seem to be a set schedule or protocol for this final, and extremely important, part of the fertility foiling process. I made a phone call.
ME: So, when can I expect to see the results of the first test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda varies.
ME: Well, what about the second test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda depends on the first test.
ME: Okay, in your many years of experience, how long would you say it has typically taken in the past. If you had to guess. You don’t have to be exact – just a ballpark figure. Any round number will do.
RECEPTION: I dunno. They all kinda run together.
ME: Right. Will I at least get a phone call when they do come in?
RECEPTION: I dunno. That kinda depends on who’s working that day.
It’s like a bad one-night stand. We did all these wonderful (and somewhat questionable) things together, and now they’re shutting down. They’ve rolled over and fallen asleep. No snuggle time. No pillow talk. They won’t even call me back.
The whole point of letting a stranger grab my boys and cut them to bits relies on this last piece of information. My wife and I wanted to cut off the kid canal. We wanted to snip off the worry of churning out another selfish, noisy, expensive little angel. We wanted to finally enjoy spontaneous sexy-time and donate our remaining condoms to the nearest junior high.
But we can’t – not until we get confirmation that I’m officially ballistically barren.
So we wait.
And we use a condom.
And then we wait some more.
Finally, I make another call. After quickly reminding them of who I am and the amazing time we spent together, I get down to business. Play time’s over.
ME: Look lady, either give me my results or send back my samples.
SFX: [papers rustling]
RECEPTION: Here we go. The test came in a coupla weeks ago. It’s negative.
ME: Negative, like no sperm? Or negative, like it didn’t work?
RECEPTION: Negative, like no sperm.
ME: Good. Okay – are those the results of the first test or the second test?
RECEPTION: That’s the second test.
ME: Alright, what about the first test?
RECEPTION: What do you mean?
ME: I mean, what are the results of the first test?
RECEPTION: I dunno. Didn’t anybody call you?
As the negotiations continued, it became quite apparent that she didn’t know the results of the first test. In the end, she agreed to have all the results mailed to me. I hung up the phone. And I drove to the store for booze and prophylactics.
And two weeks later, here it is! A letter! Drumroll, please.
Is it good news? Yes!
Is it some carefully-worded, we-can’t-be-blamed-if-you-still-get-pregnant, bull crap? Naturally.
But hey, it’s good enough for me! Now let’s put these results to a third round of rigorous testing. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to run to the store.
For some booze.
[The entire snipping story starts here.]
A vasectomy cannot scientifically be considered a surgical success until there is a little plastic cup of proven results. This sample of my sterility must be both A. produced and B. delivered.
Let’s crank up the internet and start with the first.
Over the past ten weeks, I have been instructed by the good Dr. Scissorhands to purge the tanks. And to do so with much frequency and fervor. -Um, sure, doc. Can I get a doctor’s note for that? There are a few meetings I’d like to miss.
Speaking of missing.
As I mentioned before, I was given a small plastic cup in which to provide my sample. And as some of you may know, the male human body does not necessarily offer such a sample in a controlled nor accurate fashion. I mean, I can’t even pee straight.
Nonetheless, I will not attempt to describe the position in which I contorted myself to perform this act. Instead, I will offer a statement – a mere suggestion to the esteemed professionals of the sperm-counting industry. Some sort of condom or baggy or trash can has got to be more efficient.
Next. The delivery.
The doctor thoughtfully provided a receptacle. Unfortunately, it is a clear, plastic container. But don’t worry – the doctor also provided a baggy in which to carry the receptacle. Unfortunately, it is also a clear, plastic container. In as much as I used my imagination to create the sample, it will take very little imagination for anyone to know what I’m toting around.
So, I added another baggy. An opaque baggy. Now I have a baggy holding a baggy holding a cup of my precious lifeless cargo.
As it turns out, I probably should not have chosen the exact same type of bag for my lunch.
Moving on. There’s something special about standing in an elevator surrounded by strangers while holding baggy of your own semen. I had a collision of two conflicting thoughts pumping through my head.
1. Oh God – everybody knows I was masturbating 15 minutes ago, and that I’m carrying the results around like a tantalizing testicular trophy.
2. Oh God – I need to tell everybody what’s in this baggy. It’ll really make their day.
I walk into the waiting room.
I tap the glass.
The window slides back.
It’s a girl.
“Can I help you?”
“Uh, no thanks. I already took care of it.”
“Uh, I mean… I need to drop this off.”
“What is it?”
“Uh, it’s for my vasectomy. I mean, from my vasectomy. Uh…I had a vasectomy.”
“I see. Is it number one or number two?”
“Um, neither. I had a vasectomy.”
“Sir. Is it your first or second semen sample?”
It was my first. Basically, there will be two samples, two weeks apart. Sent to two different labs. If I’m sperm-free at both labs, boom – it’s business time. So, I gave her my bag of goo and went to the office. My coworkers said I was oddly chipper that day.
Now, all I can do is wait.
And let my arms rest.
After undergoing my vasectomy in mid-September, I was given orders by my doctor to return in 10 weeks to offer a sample of my goody-goody gum-drops. And during that 10 weeks, I was also given orders to do my due diligence of evacuating my vas deferens.
Like, basically ejaculating everywhere I go, all the time. Welp, this is the 10th week, and I’m delighted to say that I’m right on schedule. In fact, I’m a little bit ahead, thank you very much. The entire family is very proud.
Of course, much of this daunting task was able to be tackled via traditional means with my smokin’ hot lady-wife and the magical powers of imagination. And bath products.
That said – let’s talk about porn.
Noun – (por·nog·ra·phy) /pôrˈnägrəfē/ • Printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings. Induces boners. (Oxford Dictionary)
And looky there – it’s Greek. Who woulda guessed?
It roughly breaks down to “writing about prostitutes.”
Now, I’m certainly no porn expert. But I’m no novice either. And according to statistics, neither are you. At least 70% of computers with the internet visit a site of ill repute every month. I remember the first time I discovered the naked possibilities of the open web. It was Mother’s Day. I thought a spa treatment would be a swell gift for my dear mother. So, I googled, “facial.” KaBlooey! I felt as though I had unlocked some dirty secret wormhole in the universe. I looked around to see if somebody was playing a trick on me or something. It may very well have been the greatest day of my life. Anyway, I got my mom a gift certificate to Half Price Books.
Here are some things I learned during my recent “research”:
Pornography has incredible girth. Seriously, it’s a huge industry. It is estimated to generate upwards of $14 billion a year in the U.S. alone. That’s more than any of the major league sports. Although, I personally consider women’s volleyball to be crossover programming.
Pornography has thrusting power. It leads the way in determining the media technology and formatting of your entertainment. VHS, Beta, DVD, Blu-Ray, cave walls, etc. Booty-clarity has decided them all. (See anal bleaching)
Pornography is geriatric. It has been around forever. Exaggerated genitalia are on the walls of freakin’ caves. As soon as there was a printing press in the 15th century, there was a smut novel. As soon as motion pictures were developed in 1895, there was a smut movie (1897).
Pornography is in your face. It is everywhere. It spans cultures and languages and races and sometimes even species. Photos, movies, paintings, prose and cartoons have all been used. And, it is almost impossible to avoid on the internet. Try this. Turn off the safe-search on your browser and do an image search for anything. Really. ANYTHING. Somewhere, somebody has related it to boobies.
Most importantly, pornography is vast. Endless. It’s rather overwhelming. Whatever you want, it’s out there. Whatever you don’t want, it’s out there, too. Singles. Couples. Big groups. Little groups. Humongous crowds. Animals. Feet. Heels. Leather. Latex. Cheaters. Teachers. Gushers. Secretaries. Babysitters. Whatever.
Choose race. Choose age. Choose your favorite body part, position, nipple-shape or circumcision. Whatever.
Even the taboo gets taboo. Some sites advertise rape, revenge, incest and hidden cameras. Even puke, pee and poop. Whatever.
Furries are people in giant animal costumes. It’s like an orgy on stage at Chuck E. Cheese.
Hentai is hot Japanese cartoon action. With lots of tentacles.
Big Babies are grown men in diapers. Almost always overweight.
And, as they say in the industry, that’s just the tip. I could go on and on forever and ever and ever. But, whatever.
My big date with a plastic cup is in a couple of days. I considered showing up with a one-gallon milk jug full of yogurt, boasting, “Here ya go! 10 weeks!” But, my wife has convinced me otherwise. Instead, I will just turn in my single-serving size of hopefully sterile semen to the lucky boys down at the load lab. If I score a zero, then I go back two weeks later and turn in a second sample to a different lab for confirmation. If that is also a zero – it’s party time. No internet needed.
Oh, you might want to turn back on your safe-search.
It’s Movember – that wonderfully fuzzy time of year when men everywhere grow out their facial hair to build awareness for men’s health and ultimately ruin Thanksgiving Day family photographs. It has also been dubbed No-Shave November and No-Sex November.
It began in Australia in 2004 and has quickly grown around the entire face of the globe. In its truest form, men grow a stand-alone mustache to trumpet the cause, but over the years it has spread to include other forms of facial follicles as well. This change was made at the request of a coalition of wives, girlfriends and Child Protective Services.
The cornerstone of the Movember movement is prostate cancer. Which I guess is fitting, coming from The Land Down Under.
Here are some facts:
– 1 in 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer.
– 30,000 men will die from it this year in the U.S. alone.
– A man is 35% more likely to have prostate cancer than a woman is to have breast cancer.
– A man in 100% more likely to have prostate cancer than a woman is to have prostate cancer.
Pretty scary stuff, right? The problem is the actual procedure of getting the prostate checked out. It doesn’t take a genius to surmise a man’s reluctance. You see, it kinda involves a finger in the hiney-hole. And most guys are generally adverse to this sort of thing. And, even if you’re the type of fella who mildly enjoys the occasional stinky pinky – a medical and clinical prod ‘n poke wouldn’t be all that wonderful anyway. So, basically we avoid it like the butt-dentist.
The prostate is a donut-shaped gland that creates goop to protect your sperm. So, why should I care since I just had a vasectomy and don’t really need a sperm security system? Well, the real pickle in the pooper occurs when the prostate gets all messed up and inflamed. Then, it gets in the way of important stuff like peeing, ejaculating and getting a big ‘ol erection. Oh, and then it can kill you. In the butthole.
Anyway, I got myself checked earlier this year. So, if you’re wondering what to expect, here are some basics:
• Prostate exams are performed by Urologists, Oncologists and some questionably qualified Primary Care Physicians.
• Unfortunately, these doctors are not listed by ring-size. I mean, the last thing anybody wants is Dr. Dikembe Mutombo waiting on the other side of that door. You’ll just have to get a referral or risk it. I was lucky. I got Dr. Tyrion Lannister.
• Eat some cabbage, drink some coffee and read a newspaper. Just make sure you drop a deuce before you go. The more stuff in the way, the more time he will need to spend fiddling around down there. Besides, this is the last guy you want angry.
• The waiting room will be filled with a lot of old men with yummy colostomy bags. Don’t run away. Let it be motivation.
• Dr. Jellyfinger has heard all your rectum jokes before. Don’t embarrass yourself.
• The preferred stance is leaning over with your elbows on the table, pointing your knees and toes inward.
• Dr. Manicure will put on rubber gloves and scoop his finger through a tub of industrial fart jelly.
• He will then tell you to relax and breathe easy. And then this happens:
I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that this is fun. It’s uncomfortable – both physically and emotionally. The best thing I can say is that it doesn’t last very long. The finger goes in, swirls and twirls around a bit, and then focusses on the prostate itself. And trust me, you will know exactly when he starts mashing on your prostate. It has a feeling all its own. Try not to clinch.
Before you know it, Dr. Butter Finger will be popping off his glove and pointing you to the bathroom. It is in this porcelain fortress-of-solitude that you will be left to shamefully clean up and feel sorry for yourself. If you need to cry, this is the place. Just be careful which tissue you use.
Is it a good time? No.
Is it worth it? You bet your ass.
When detected and treated early, prostate cancer has a whopping 97% success rate. That means, if everybody went out and got checked and fixed in time, that ridiculous number of 30,000 U.S. butt-death victims-per-year would go down to only 900 U.S. butt-death victims-per-year. And instead of 1-in-6 men walking around with prostate cancer, there would only be 1 in 200.
So, go get checked out. Especially if you’re over 50. Because if you think another man’s finger in your farter is absolutely terrifying, it’s nothing compared the painful and bloody anal alternatives. Seriously.
Oh. And grow a mustache.
As I tug closer and closer to my fertilization-free lifestyle, I can’t help but worry about something – that last chance for a cruel surprise. No matter how careful the wife and I have been before, we must now be extra-super, double-secret-probation careful. No unfettered flurries of frenzied frolicking. No Barry White and tequila shots.
Plus, given our propensity for high-potency procreation, we know not to even come close to the slightest scosche of a scrotal indiscretion. Many of our friends have stories – ridiculously unfortunate bundles-of-joy stories. (Note: The names below have been changed to protect the less-than-innocent.)
EXHIBIT A: Marcus & Holly
Marcus and Holly had already made the decision to the get the procedure done. In fact, the vasectomy had been on the books and scheduled for weeks. A bottle of wine and Fifty Shades of Grey later, they’ve got a positive pee-pee test and I’m a godfather.
EXHIBIT B: Steve & Natalie
Steve had already gone through the surgery. The scary part was over. They found out after the snip-and-clip that they had screwed up beforehand. Turns out there was a sale on Tanqueray and warming gel that weekend.
EXHIBIT Q: Michael & Laura
Michael made the decision, had the surgery, went through the recovery and then waited the entire ten-week period before cracking open the Four Loko. But, he never brought in a sample to the lab for the little teste test. Oops. Time to go diaper shopping.
So the word now is, “caution.” There’s no need to take any unnecessary risks.
It’s dangerous, because I kinda dig my wife. And her parts. One inadvertently sexy sweep-of-the-floor or flossing-of-teeth could result in intimacy. And potentially both financial and emotional ruin for the entire family. We’ve had to take precautionary measures. New rules have been implemented:
Rule #1: Don’t say crap like, “What could possibly go wrong?”*
*Any comment which might be construed as a potential jinx must be counter-balanced with a comment of acknowledgement of said potential jinx in order to un-jinx the jinx.
Banned Actions & Items:
– No tempting of the fates, the gods, Murphy or the kharma bus.
– Do not reach for anything on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
– Do not stand near the fridge.
– No Game of Thrones
– No stretching.
– No trampolines.
– No hot dogs.
– No deodorant.
– Nor showering, flossing, brushing nor bathing of any kind.
– Dick Butkus
– Sofia Vergara
As long as we adhere to these basic rules and regulations, we should be able to avoid any coital catastrophes. It won’t be easy. But as long as we have the support of each other and our dear friends, we know we can remain steadfast in our restraint to reach the greater goal of hanky-panky freedom.
But if you see us on the street, you may want to keep your distance. We don’t smell so great.
The wife and I have two kids, putting us on the precarious cusp of being outnumbered. And since we’re already scrambling as it is, I had the vasectomy to nip that bud in the buds.
Over the past few years, I’ve learned that my kids hold an unfair advantage. They come from a place of pure helplessness and innocent ignorance. And therefore, as a relatively reasonable, rutting earthling breeder, I’m obligated to expect absolutely nothing from them. To make matters worse, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to love them and feed them and ultimately keep them from chewing on rusty nails and dying. Even rats and roaches feel this.
Oh, how I wish I still had somebody to unequivocally fawn and dote all over me. My parents, of course, used to do this. But then I had kids, giving them grandkids. And FOOM! Suddenly all those cuddles and kisses and Little Debbie Snack Cakes got instantly diverted. My wife used to mother me, too.
Kyle has the flu. Before kids.
“Aw, honey-poo. Here’s some soupy soup and a cool towel for your forehead. You just relax and watch the Bob Barker girls.”
Kyle has the flu. Since kids.
“How long are you gonna milk this? I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for when you have enough strength to stop being such a pussy.”
Meanwhile, my daughter gets a cookie for flushing the toilet.
The sickest part is that since kids function primarily on instinct, they are actually pretty intuitive. More so than us pea-brained grownups. My kids have developed this basic, simple approach and now use it to slap me around.
Me: What’re you doing?
Girl: Hopping on one foot.
Me: Practicing for what?
Girl: Hopping on one foot.
It’s like she’s just toying with me. See how masterfully she can lead me to befuddled silence? I never see it coming.
“Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that?
I don’t know one child with a full time job and children.”
– Bill Hicks
Now, it’s not that I want to be a kid again. Far from it. I like driving my truck and being able to appreciate things like beer and broccoli and boobies.
To be honest, I’m just jealous. I’m jealous of all those things I once enjoyed but was forced to bequeath the moment my kids were born. I miss the free time. I miss the gold stars. I miss falling on my face and having someone pick me back up. I know my wife misses that stuff, too. But now it’s our job to hand out the gold stars and peel clumsy people off the concrete.
You know, I guess if I have anything to learn from this, it’s that I need to remember to treat my wife as a child.
I need to pick her up when she’s down. I need to give her cuddles and kisses when she’s feeling alone. I need give her love and soupy soup and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. And I need to make sure that my kids see it all happen, too. They may be the center of our universe, but they must understand that they’re not the only things in the universe. Their Mommy just so happens to be a big big part of my universe – and she has been since before they were even accidentally born.
And besides, she’s got boobies. So, chalk one up for Mommy.
There are many reasons I shelled out the forty bucks to get vasecomized and have my baby valve shut off. Money, time, noise, vomit, etc. But one of the biggest reasons is simple:
Fear for the future. Fear for my future. Fear for his or her future. Fear for your future. Fear for the future of the entire world.
First: my future. I don’t want to go to prison. Dr. SJ Zuravin of NCBI has found in his studies that the rates of childhood abuse and neglect increase as the size of the family increases. Currently, I only experience burning red visions and livid hallucinations of punting my little angels onto the interstate. I don’t do it, however. Because I have will-power. But just barely.
Secondly, and more importantly – the poor, forgotten shadow-child might also end up in prison as well. Or worse.
Let’s look at a few adorable youngsters quietly passed over in their family brood.
Adolf Hitler – 4th of 6 – Tyrant, genocidal maniac, murderer of millions to promote a standard to which he, himself could not satisfy. Mustache enthusiast.
Osama bin Laden – 17th of 53 – Terrorist, extremist, convincer of troubled youths to sacrifice themselves in order to murder a bunch of strangers on the other side of the world. Infrequent showerer.
Stephen Baldwin – 4th of 4 – BioDome, Slap Shot 2, Hannah Montana tattoo. (The Usual Suspects was pretty good.)
Sure, the only thing certain about the future is that it is uncertain. I might very well find it within myself to churn up enough time and energy and love to nurture the next Gandhi or Jim Henson or Sebastian Janikoswki. But I have a secret. I can give you a glancing glimpse into that uncertain future. I found a little something in my time machine.
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF YOUNG TRE JONES
6:30 am :: Awaken to the peaceful chirps of birds tittering a playful morning melody
6:45 am :: Murder birds
7:00 am :: Consume 8 cups of vodka coffee
7:45 am :: Arrive at 3rd grade class
8:00 am :: Vomit
8:01 am :: Sleep
1:00 pm :: Wake up screaming
1:15 pm :: Leave school
1:30 pm :: Barbituates
1:45 pm :: Eat at Taco Bell/gas station
2:00 pm :: Listen to Toby Keith
2:30 pm :: Punch hooker
3:00 pm :: Vomit
3:01 pm :: Sleep
5:30 pm :: Wake up screaming
6:00 pm :: Microwave kitten
6:30 pm :: Watch Zack & Cody
7:00 pm :: Laugh at Larry-The-Cable-Guy commercial
8:00 pm :: Finish laughing at Larry-The-Cable-Guy commercial
8:30 pm :: Forget to shower
8:45 pm :: Quaaludes
9:00 pm :: Tweet rant about albino Muslims who recycle
9:30 pm :: Quote Scarface
9:45 pm :: Hug daddy night-night
1:00 am :: Vomit
1:01 am :: Sleep
In other words – you’re welcome. I don’t want this powder-keg walking around, and neither do you. I have shorn and severed myself to save us all. I have studied and deduced the limitations of man and surmised the horrific and deplorable outcome of creating one more squandered soul to fester among us. And I have taken it upon myself to muster up the courage and claim the responsibility of ensuring a greater, calmer, more peaceful existence for all the good beings of planet earth.
Or maybe I’m just cheap and lazy.
As I wallow in the lag between vasectomy surgery and the big test to see if everything went according to plan, my mind has been want to wander. And of course, those meandering thoughts have drifted into doubt – second guessing whether or not this whole kick in the manhood is all worthwhile.
Lucky for me, I have the unwavering support of not only my smokin’ hot wife, but my two precious kiddos are looking out for me as well. It’s as if they can sense their daddy is conflicted and deeply troubled, so they swoop in to offer their adorably poignant, yet delicately subtle, nudges of reinforcement.
Like yesterday. The wife and I were in the kitchen. I was supposed to be helping her stir up some dinner, but I was lost in a spiral of sad virile uncertainty – gazing off into space. Suddenly, the 9-year-old boy pipes up.
“I don’t know what you’re cooking, but I hate it. It stinks, and it’s making me gag. I’m not eating it.”
– Turd Jones
Ah thanks, buddy. You know how to put daddy at ease. Here’s a butter knife – be a champ and go tighten up the electrical outlets.
And then there was this delightful little conversation about an hour later:
The Wife: Where did you put your dress?
The 6-Year-Old: I don’t know.
The Wife: Then I don’t know if it’ll get washed.
The 6-Year-Old: What if I don’t want my clothes where you want my clothes?
The Wife: Y’know, I’m just trying to do your laundry.
The 6-Year-Old: I don’t care.
Masterfully done, sweet-pea. Daddy won’t forget this. Could you take this flashlight and go check the dog for worms?
They really have it down to a science. Their timing is in perfect step. Their delivery, Shakespearean. And their creative little minds produce truly surprising and remarkably varied methods of treatment. Notice how the two examples above managed to deftly co-mingle insulting obstinance with a household chore that neither the wife nor I wanted to do in the first place. It’s like telling the janitor he’s an idiot for not scrubbing the toilet with the right brush.
And then, just before bedtime, I’m assaulted with one last little perfect act of diabolical cruelty. The six-year-old crawls up onto my lap and curls herself into a warm, gushy ball of fragile affection.
“I love you, Daddy.”
– I love you too, sweetie.
“I made up a song for you, Daddy.”
– Really? That’s wonderful.
“It’s called, ‘I Love Daddy.'”
That’s when I bury my nose into the top of her head and breathe in as deeply as I can. And honest to God, there is nothing else in the world that smells anything like this. My olfactory nerves somehow delve beyond the stench of sweat and dirt and selfishness and insensitivity, and it locks-on to a faint, distant essence of unconditional love and undeniable comfort. It’s like a tractor beam of tenderness that pulls me in and washes away any sour memories lingering from the day. Eventually, we start to breathe in unison.
Her soft, raspy voice lets out a small hum as she begins to sing.
Turns out it’s a song about daddy’s farts.