Getting a vasectomy has not necessarily been a simple decision. It’s not one of those impulse buys you grab at the checkout line. Chocolate, bubble gum, Kim Kardashian, sterility. A person should probably think about some of the repercussions before just jumping into the nad-nipping chair and letting some stranger cleave off the ability to make babies.
I certainly did. I thought and thought and talked it out with the wife. I did a lot of research. I chatted with several testicularly-disconnected gentlemen. I considered the pain, the prickly procedure and plenty of potential paternal drawbacks. I did all this, so that I would be able to ask myself some truly important and informed questions like:
What if he cuts off my prick?
What if it hurts worse than they say?
What if it hurts longer than they say?
What if the anaesthesia wears off?
What if before the surgery I nick myself shaving and bleed out in the bathtub, where one of my kids finds my dead body with a pink razor in one hand and my shiny smooth gumdrops in the other?
Luckily, in the moment of mulling my manhood, while I was teetering twixt scrotal surgery and a lifetime of latex, my wonderful, angelic squishable darlings offered a bit of eloquent insight to kindly assist me with my dilemma. The 9-year-old boy skipped in holding a disembodied Barbie-head in his mouth. He was shaking it back and forth like a dog with a ‘possum. The 6-year-old girl screams at the top of her lungs that she hates him, me, my wife and everyone in the whole stupid stinky world. Then she kicks the dog and runs out the door.
Bingo. Decision made.
And there’s a bonus – there’s an extra juicy nugget of information that really makes it an easy choice for me. Let’s say I change my mind. Let’s say that I have already been chopped to bits, and my spermatozoa pipeline has been bisected and clamped for ovarian protection – but I have a change of heart. Let’s say that one day I look down at the Flamin’ Hot Cheeto vomit on the floor and decide it’s not quite sticky enough. Let’s say I look at my poor, tattered couch and realize that it simply has not been used as a napkin enough times. And then, I take a gander at my bank statement and notice that those red numbers could maybe be just a teensy bit redderer.
Bottom line: I can change my mind. I can click ‘undo’. I can makes things just like they was.
Basically, you will always have the chance to heal the crystal and unleash another wave of your spawn upon the universe – if you really feel like it. In fact, it would appear any monkey with a sharp stick and some duct tape can make it happen.
There’s only one stipulation to the unsnipulation. It’s the 7-year catch. For up to 7 years, a good fellow can run up to the corner store, grab a Slurpee, get his vas deferens glued back together and then get back to gettin’ busy makin’ humans. No problem. But, after seven years or so, production at the fertilizer factory will have drastically slowed down. And since the actual sperm content of your fertilizer jelly is but a mere 5 percent of the entire show, the odds of hitting placental pay-dirt are next to none.
So, if you’re still feeling the urge to purge your seed after 7 years, the sperm must be extracted directly from the testes. That’s right. Extracted. Directly. With a needle. From your nut.
Please, feel free to take a moment to squirm around in your chair and clinch your prostate.
But hey, you will get paid in full with this method. Since this now changes the mode of reproduction to that of artificial insemination, you may very well wind up with twins. Or triplets. Or John and Kate Plus 8.
Nonetheless, I’ve done the deed and now I’m in the homestretch. Just 7 weeks until the big test to see if I’m officially shooting blanks.
Until then: porn.