My bag baggage

Vasectomy surgery has most certainly had its ups and downs. Literally, figuratively and suggestively.

Some good ups:
A Day Off
Unbridled Laziness
Minimal Pain
Free Food
Beer
Football
Sympathy
Medical Porn

Some bad downs:
Hand to the Balls
Blade to the Balls
Shot to the Balls
Cut to the Balls
Band-aid to the Balls
Gravity to the Balls
Chair to the Balls

Sure, there have been the obvious physical scars – mostly internal. But there have also been some mental and emotional side effects as well – also internal. Now, I’m not talking about the apprehension and fear of having pointy implements poke around in my change purse. I knew that was coming. I’m referring more to the pesky ponderances produced by the part of the brain that likes to worry – and then proceeds to worry about worrying too much.

Gonad Guilt

The wife and I are potent folks. Our magical mixture of zygote-stewing baby bisque has already spawned twice. And we’ve made the attempt to reproduce exactly zero times. I’ve always considered this to be just our dumb luck. But, here’s the rubber-gloved irony. I have dear friends and family members who have tried and tried to have kids, but for one reason or another, they have been unsuccessful. In other words, they just keep making sweet sweet love over and over and over again without getting pregnant.

Wait. That’s what we’re trying to do.

I wish we could just switch places, but that’s not really in the cards. And that makes both me and my testicles sad.

sad-sink-faceAw dude, man. Man, dude aw, man.

I honestly feel bad. I don’t like to see the people I love being disappointed or frustrated or feeling helpless or listening to Creed. Granted, there are many aspects of having kids that are absolutely amazing. Poop. Snot. Fights. Farts. Screaming for hours that they’re hungry for cheesy mac, but they don’t want to eat the cheesy mac you made for dinner, so you make them their own damn cheesy mac on the side, while your cheesy mac gets cold, and then the little turd takes one tiny bite and complains about how the cheesy mac doesn’t taste just right, and so you yell, “Fine! Maybe your cheesy mac will taste better like this!” and you throw it on the floor, and the dog runs over and eats it and gets cheesy mac diarrhea and craps all over the rug and makes the entire house smell like cheesy rancid festering burrito mayonnaise death.

Then nobody eats.

Don’t get me wrong, kids do have a down side, too. They can be expensive, obnoxious, self-important little filthy monkeys. But for some reason, you can’t stop hugging them. And squeezing them. And sniffing them. And wanting to throw them in the trash.

So, to my friends and family who are trying – I’m sorry. You may be hurting. You may be frustrated. You may be angry. You may think I’m a selfish, repugnant jerk and taking this whole thing for granted. This, I cannot help. All I can tell you is that I love you. And that you’re more than welcome to come over and babysit whenever you like.

Just don’t make cheesy mac.

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