The People vs. More Stupid Kids

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.

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.

Hitler-in-Shorts-in-The-Late-1920s-3Not those shorts. Not in my house.

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.

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Childhood Sterility Advocates

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.

sad_keanuDude, like – did I take the bogus pill?

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.

syringe-needle-jabbed-into-a-mandarin-sami-sarkisSo I chose this. And I feel good about it.

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.

Such tender support

As if my wife wasn’t already uncomfortable enough with this vasectomy blog.

Last Friday, the good folks of WordPress were kind enough to share the chronicling of my family cockles. So, over the past few days I’ve been introduced to many, many new friends who share a flattering interest with what’s fluttering around in my pantaloons. Come on in, everybody – join the fun.

brazilian_testicle_mascot_1I should probably get those dimples checked out.

At this point, I guess it would be prudent to offer a quick summary of my sensitive, saggy little story so far. Sure, you could always go back and read all the previous entries, but who wants to do all that clicking? That’s a finger cramp waiting to happen. I’ll piddle through some key points and include a few links to the more crucial moments.

I have sired offspring twice.
I have attempted to do this zero times.
I love what happened.
But I don’t want it to happen again.

[time, money, messy, fussy, unbridled and unfettered stress-free, guilt-free and spermicidally stink-free, etc.]

I did some research. I made some phone calls. And then made the decision.

Ballogy 101
If you clicked the above link, you should now be an ejaculation expert. Perhaps even obnoxiously so. If not, in a nutshell we learned that men are packing ridiculous amounts of sperm. Among other things.

What to Expect When You’re Vasecting
This is the day before surgery. The primer. It should serve as a nice, generous coating of warming gel for anyone slathering on the shaving cream and preparing themselves for the procedure.

Friday, The Snipteenth
The big day. Get yourself puckered up for a frank, juicy play-by-play of what goes down when your pants go down. The shots, the cuts, the snips, the clips and the crazy dude in the waiting room.

Ow, My Balls
The aftermath. This is what a good fella can expect during the days immediately following getting jabbed in the junk with a big needle and a pair of scissors. It’s not as bad as you might think.

tumblr_mu7dirlkkB1qzg45so1_1280Try to avoid strenuous activities.

So now what? I’ve had bruising and scabbing and healing and feelings of guilt and freedom and frustration. There have been stitches and itches and whispers and whiskers – and I’ve had to explain it all to my darling, wonderful, precious accidental children.

Now it’s time to finish the job. Ultimately, I have a couple of months until my appointment to produce a spermless sample for the lab. And then do it again two weeks later. The doctor says it’s no easy task to overcome the healing process, to intellectually accept what has just happened, and to clear out hundreds of billions of potential ovarian suitors. It’s going to require a lot of time and effort and emotional fortitude.

And tissues.

The Nutty Professor

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.

“What was sundered and undone, behold, the two became one!”

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.

752039346_ab0f6ee3f3It ain’t rocket surgery.

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.

Doctor’s orders.

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.

So what’s with all the masturbating?

The vasectomy was two weeks ago. I’m healing up nicely and the fertilization delivery tubes are no longer connected to the loading and launching apparatus. But it’s not business time yet. In fact, the office is closed until the next billing cycle. Well, maybe not closed exactly, but headquarters will need to remain quarantined during heavy trading.

I have an appointment scheduled 10 weeks from last Friday, the Snip-teenth. (Now 8 weeks.) I have been instructed to bring a sample of my reproductive catalytic liquid projectile – which should be only 95% of what it once was.

CRUCIAL EJACULATION INFORMATION>>> Ballology101.

That other 5% is the important stuff. It makes babies. And we don’t want babies. That’s why I allowed needles and scissors and fingers and stitches and scabs and bruises and whiskers on my sensitivity sack.

IMG_2825-LLest we forget.

We are looking for a zero. Zero sperm. Not three. Not seventeen. Not even an amazingly impotent two million sperms. In other words, I’ll hand my sample off to some lucky sucker who gets to sit around all day sifting through jelly jars counting sperm. I hope the air conditioner is working.

And if that test turns up zero, I will be instructed to bring back a second sample two weeks later. This will be sent to another lab, so that a different lucky sucker who gets to sit around all day sifting through jelly jars counting sperm can make sure that the first lucky sucker counted to zero correctly.

But why does it take 10 -12 weeks? Let’s go to the map!

hwkb17_014_01How long did the artist spend on that faint tuft of hair?

Basically, what this hilarious drawing is depicting is a pretty basic loading and firing mechanism. But the important thing to notice here is the length of that tube. No, the vas deferens tube. It runs from the marbles all the way up to the belly button and back down underneath the pee pee pouch. That’s a long and winding road. And there’s two of them. Finally, they end up at the spongy seminal mixing chamber. And when it’s party time, a couple of drops of spermy men are added to the mix, the sexy little sponge gets squeezed, and the weapon is gleefully discharged. Cue fireworks.

Now consider this: an average man is packing 25,000,000,000 ova-piercing rounds in those tubes at any given time. That’s a lot of drops. So, it kinda takes a while to clear out the snorkel.

More fireworks.

Undercarriage Update

It’s been almost two weeks since my vasectomy. I’ve had a man tape my manhood to my stomach and stick a needle into my scared, shorn scrotum and cut it open. I’ve had another two injections inside my testicular tote-bag, and then my vas deferens tubes pulled out and cut to bits. And then, after receiving stitches on my already sensitive cinch sack, I waddled around bruised and sore, terrified by the mere thought of gravity itself. But now, I must endure the most severe pain yet.

Nut stubble.

The beginning of the process involved me shaving my nethers. This was my first time to ever attempt such a sheering, and I miraculously came out unscathed. But nobody warned me about this part.

4659080239_de147e65de_zPicture these in your pants.

I am constantly being poked and pricked on the inside of my legs and the under-side of my tender tallywacker. It doesn’t matter the underwear. It doesn’t matter the position. I think it’s just their angry little way of exacting revenge on me for relieving them of their fertilizing purposes.

Other than that, here’s the two-week checklist.

– The dull pain moved around a bit. It kinda travelled from way down deep in the scrotal south, up through the spermidial ship channel to belly-button harbor, and then back down to just under the belt buckle – slowly dissipating along the way. Now it’s gone.

– The bruising went for a walkabout as well. It changed colors as it moved around the globes and even managed to invade the base of my business. It’s not completely back to normal, but it no longer looks like Wes Craven shot a movie in my shorts.

– The stitch is looking better. At about the end of the first week, I was able to take the Dora-The-Explorer band-aid off my balls. Now, the scab has been falling away, and the stitch is starting to dissolve. That’s good and all, but it itches. Itches big time. I got itches in my britches.

902797_1324042691509_fullSometimes I make the sound, too.

Now that the pain has subsided, I can move on to the next phase of my medical instructions. I have a follow-up appointment in 8 weeks. And I have lots to do before then. Lots and lots to do. You see, I’m supposed to bring a sample to that appointment.

Yes. That kind of sample.

You know what time it is. It’s time to do some stretching exercises and take the SafeSearch off my internet browser. It’s go time. Because the doctor isn’t interested in the very first sample I produce.

He wants to see the eighty-first.