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.

This is my toilet.

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.
Of course.
I freeze.

“Can I help you?”
“Uh, no thanks. I already took care of it.”
“Huh?”
“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.