daddy

October 25, 2013

Advantage: Children

The wife and I have two kids, putting us on the precarious cusp of being outnumbered. And since we’re already scrambling as it is, I had the vasectomy to nip that bud in the buds.

Over the past few years, I’ve learned that my kids hold an unfair advantage. They come from a place of pure helplessness and innocent ignorance. And therefore, as a relatively reasonable, rutting earthling breeder, I’m obligated to expect absolutely nothing from them. To make matters worse, I feel overwhelmingly compelled to love them and feed them and ultimately keep them from chewing on rusty nails and dying. Even rats and roaches feel this.

Oh, how I wish I still had somebody to unequivocally fawn and dote all over me. My parents, of course, used to do this. But then I had kids, giving them grandkids. And FOOM! Suddenly all those cuddles and kisses and Little Debbie Snack Cakes got instantly diverted. My wife used to mother me, too.

Kyle has the flu. Before kids.
“Aw, honey-poo. Here’s some soupy soup and a cool towel for your forehead. You just relax and watch the Bob Barker girls.”

Kyle has the flu. Since kids.
“How long are you gonna milk this? I’ll leave the dishes in the sink for when you have enough strength to stop being such a pussy.”

appendectomy0Don’t worry about me, babe. I got this.

Meanwhile, my daughter gets a cookie for flushing the toilet.

The sickest part is that since kids function primarily on instinct, they are actually pretty intuitive. More so than us pea-brained grownups. My kids have developed this basic, simple approach and now use it to slap me around.

Me:  What’re you doing?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  Why?
Girl:  Practicing.
Me:  Practicing for what?
Girl:  Hopping on one foot.
Me:  …
Girl:  (giggles)

It’s like she’s just toying with me. See how masterfully she can lead me to befuddled silence? I never see it coming.

“Children are smarter than any of us. Know how I know that?
I don’t know one child with a full time job and children.”
– Bill Hicks

Now, it’s not that I want to be a kid again. Far from it. I like driving my truck and being able to appreciate things like beer and broccoli and boobies.

Michael+Jackson+amor+de+Peter+PanHow do you do, fellow kids?

To be honest, I’m just jealous. I’m jealous of all those things I once enjoyed but was forced to bequeath the moment my kids were born. I miss the free time. I miss the gold stars. I miss falling on my face and having someone pick me back up. I know my wife misses that stuff, too. But now it’s our job to hand out the gold stars and peel clumsy people off the concrete.

You know, I guess if I have anything to learn from this, it’s that I need to remember to treat my wife as a child.

I need to pick her up when she’s down. I need to give her cuddles and kisses when she’s feeling alone. I need give her love and soupy soup and Little Debbie Snack Cakes. And I need to make sure that my kids see it all happen, too. They may be the center of our universe, but they must understand that they’re not the only things in the universe. Their Mommy just so happens to be a big big part of my universe – and she has been since before they were even accidentally born.

And besides, she’s got boobies. So, chalk one up for Mommy.

October 17, 2013

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.

September 27, 2013

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.

September 13, 2013

Ballology 101

After the little warm-up appointment with the good Dr. Richard Cushion Hands, I am now much more learned in the ways of my built-in ovarian fertilization unit. Seems simple enough, really. There’s a couple of fertilizer factories. A distribution channel from each factory to a central export facility. From there, the cargo is jettisoned into the mysteries of the universe.

That’s you! And me! And about a Jizzillion other potential chances to catch a spark of life and do something awesome and meet a gal and fall in love and eat pizza and skin a knee and take a crap and watch the Longhorns take a crap and throw a beer on the floor and go to bed.

Anyway. I’m trying to say we’re all special. And that we’re all little miracles. Just maybe not because of this part.

WARNING: I’ll be using the word, “ejaculate” a bunch of times. And in many forms.

Each ejaculation contains, on average, 200-500 million sperm. That’s hundreds of millions of chances to eat pizza. Anything below 40 million sperm-per-ejaculation and the word, “impotence” starts getting thrown around. Flip it over, rub it down, and then a few rare master ejaculators can produce over ONE BILLION SPERM in a single ejaculation.

Shower-Drain-in-the-BathroomSo you’re one-in-a-million. Whoop-tee-doo.

WARNING: There will be a pronunciation change in the word, “ejaculate.” Unlike the verb – ‘ee-JAK-yoo-layt‘, you will sometimes see the noun – ‘ee-JAK-yoo-lit.’

One single sperm fertilizes an egg. Each release of ejaculate contains hundreds of millions of sperm. But, get this – only 5% of each release of ejaculate is actually sperm. That’s right, you’re a drop in the buck of a drop in the bucket. (Note: never use this analogy in front of your lady.)

So you may be asking yourself – what’s the other 95%? Here’s the magic recipe:

70% fructose, amino acids, enzymes, etc. [sperm food]
25% Acid phosphatase, fibrinolysin, citric acid, etc. [lube]
5% Sperm [sperm]
>1% Galactos, mucus [more lube]

So, what the good doctor is going to do is cut the tubes supplying the 5%. Let’s go to the map:

vasectomy_picture

“F” indeed.

That part takes about five minutes. And I’m told I’ll be sore for a couple of days. Then, I’ll be back in action after about a week. But, I won’t be completely sperm-free for another two months. Why so long you ask? I’ll have to save that for another blog.

WARNING: I’ll be using the word “masturbate” a bunch of times.

September 10, 2013

Who am I kidding?

While we’re waiting for my appointment with Dr. Featherhands, let’s dive a bit deeper into some of my reasoning for getting a vasectomy in the first place. I mean, it’s not like I just have a hankerin’ for pain in my patriarchal pouch.

First of all – I’ve got two kids already – one boy, one girl. The wife and I have successfully reproduced ourselves to carry on our genes and namesakes. And ultimately, we’ve created a couple of slaves to take care of us, once we’re breaking our hips and peeing ourselves.

$$ Financials $$
Yep, kids are expensive. Hey look, a chart!

Screen Shot 2013-09-09 at 1.49.09 PMAnd then they go to college.

It takes a village to rob a bank and raise a child. You see, on top of that spooky graphic, there are a few more teensy weensy costs we would need to endure. A new house. Our rooms are already filled with love and people and toilets. A new car. The truck has maximized its load. And all that ridiculously priced baby equipment like car seats and strollers and cribs and Tickle-Me-Elmos and crap – we already gave all that away. We’d have to completely start over.


Health – Our Bodies Ourselves
At my wife’s current undisclosed beautifully sexy age, her body will not think pregnancy is very awesome anymore. It adds weight and strain. It steals nutrients and rearranges all the hormones. Here are some stats:

PRESENT PREGNANCY PITFALLS
1/3 chance of miscarriage
1/66 chance of chromosomal abnormality
1/106 chance of Down Syndrome
1/10 chance of birth weight lower than 5.5 lbs.
1/3 chance of kid growing up to be a neglected, pansy crybaby


Sanity – It’s Crucial
Oh yeah. And I’m not interested in anything like this:

family-largeThe vagina is not a clown car.

I do not want my life to be incessantly surrounded by loud, banging, clanging chaos. I don’t want there to always be a mess to clean up. I don’t want there to always be an argument to break up. Or a booboo to kiss. Or a snotty nose to wipe. Or a turdy ass to scrub. I want to get old with some peace and quiet and serenity. If I spent 20 more years yelling and griping it would become some sort of ingrained habit. Then I’d end up a grumpy old fart. And nobody likes that guy.

Now, as if health and sanity and money weren’t reason enough to make the snip – there’s another reason. There’s a much more yummy and sweaty and gropey reason. But that deserves its own post.

Hump Day should work.

September 9, 2013

My boys deserve a Dr. with references.

Now, it’s not too often that I deal with the phrase, ‘scrotal incision’ – but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to entrust just anybody with the task.

1ce1e6_2390540Free heartworm medication with every vasectomy.

The good news here is that I’m not blazing any new trails. I have quite a few friends who have already undergone this procedure . So, I just take out my handy rolodex, spin it back to the ‘sterile’ section – and start making some phone calls. Everyone was eager to help – perhaps a little too eager. As one might expect, some had good experiences, and some had bad experiences. And, as I heard more and more of their stories, I learned that when it comes to a man’s nethers, simple words can take on new meanings:

VASECTOMY DICTIONARY
Good experience =  uneventful
Bad experience = balls on fire

Doug said his anaesthesia didn’t take. Balls-on-fire. George said his recovery time was months rather than days. Balls-on-fire. Jason said his urologist’s name was Dr. Richard Chopp. Well that’s potentially even worse than balls-on-fire. So these options were quickly eliminated. Mike, Greg, Chris, John, Jin and Clint all had much more delightfully uneventful snips. And in the end, good or bad, every single one of my interviewees told me they were ultimately glad they had it done. And then they limped away.

A couple of docs were dropped due to distance. Apparently you don’t want a long bumpy car ride after all the fun.

And then there’s insurance. Check this out – it’s rather important. If you have the procedure done in a surgical center, boom – you get punched right in the deductible. That would be about $2,000 for me. Wallet-on-fire. BUT, if you have the procedure done in the urologist’s office, you are only responsible for the copay. That’s right. Twenty bucks. Ten per tube.

Enter, Dr. Kim. Referred by a friend, insurance compatible, a cozy 1.7 miles from my house, and bargain basement, value-menu pricing. Bingo.

I call. I shakily mumble the word, ‘vasectomy’ a few times, and then they set me up with a preliminary appointment. They called it a ‘consult’. I guess a person can’t just walk in and order the Cut’n Go Special. Dr. Kim wants to get to know me first. And get introduced to the fellas.

Oh, what to wear?

September 6, 2013

My health teacher warned me.

I’m not going to lie to you – both of my kids were accidents.

IMG_6043-LWonderful, happy little accidents.

Technically speaking, the wife and I have always been extremely careful when it comes to business time. In our fifteen years of marital entanglement, we have literally only tested the fates once. Yep, one single unprotected roll in the hey-hay in fifteen years. That turned out to be my son, Sam.

22165_305609576584_7317110_nJust look at that handsome little lack of judgement.

Three years later – still very much aware of our previous amazing, perfect and glorious mistake – the wife and I were in the midst of another intense business meeting. We chose to be careful. Again. And to be honest, we didn’t even really do much of anything. I mean, if we were on Cinemax, you probably would have changed the channel. But, as it happens, one tiny incredibly determined Navy SEAL sperm managed to survive. It crawled and dragged and battled its way into the motherland and conquered its ovarian prize.

Halloween - Angry Wonder Woman-LLilly. Strong like bull.

Yes. Yes. I love my kids, I’m glad they’re around and all – blah blah blah. But the real issue here is the fact that my wife and I seem to have an incredibly potent combination of baby-making equipment. I’m packing some serious heat – I mean, every time I sneeze, somebody gets pregnant. And Sierra, she is the fertile crescent – teeming with placental nourishment. Plus, I think she’s pretty smokin’ and I have a hard time keeping my hands off her. Throw all that together and we could potentially have already produced (let me do some math here) a brood of over 20 kids to this point. Note: includes Irish twins.

20 freakin’ kids. That sounds exhausting. And expensive. And kinda noisy.

Time to find me a doctor. One with soft hands. And good aim.

September 5, 2013

Closing the baby factory.

I am about to embark upon two things I have never done before. First, a blog. And second, a vasectomy. Wish me luck.

My name is Kyle. I’m 40 years old. I’m married. I have two kids. And I have decided to pay someone to grab me by the jumblies and sever my ability to reproduce. Now, this decision wasn’t necessarily an easy one, but it was something I quickly came to terms with several years ago. About six years ago, to be exact. My precious, lovely daughter will celebrate her seventh birthday next year.

No. It’s not her fault. Nor the fault of my son or wife. I blame science. And magic.

Over the next several weeks, I will be sharing my journey through the decision, the procedure and the ultimate outcome of tinkerin’ with my fuzzy tenders.

Photos to come.