After the second round of testicular testing, the results of my vasectomy are in!

Well, sorta.

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.

Everybody wins.

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 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?

 
Captain’s Log: Mentally murdered someone today.

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.

 None of my sperm brought their I.D.

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.]