Teste Test

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.

collegehumor.ad4e0d2cf5d9ce2cbfb4ec6226399b8eThis 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.

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Give prostate cancer the finger.

It’s Movember – that wonderfully fuzzy time of year when men everywhere grow out their facial hair to build awareness for men’s health and ultimately ruin Thanksgiving Day family photographs. It has also been dubbed No-Shave November and No-Sex November.

It began in Australia in 2004 and has quickly grown around the entire face of the globe. In its truest form, men grow a stand-alone mustache to trumpet the cause, but over the years it has spread to include other forms of facial follicles as well. This change was made at the request of a coalition of wives, girlfriends and Child Protective Services.

Odq0Z1M
Hey kids. Who needs a ride to school?

The cornerstone of the Movember movement is prostate cancer. Which I guess is fitting, coming from The Land Down Under.

Here are some facts:
– 1 in 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer.
– 30,000 men will die from it this year in the U.S. alone.
– A man is 35% more likely to have prostate cancer than a woman is to have breast cancer.
– A man in 100% more likely to have prostate cancer than a woman is to have prostate cancer.

Pretty scary stuff, right? The problem is the actual procedure of getting the prostate checked out. It doesn’t take a genius to surmise a man’s reluctance. You see, it kinda involves a finger in the hiney-hole. And most guys are generally adverse to this sort of thing. And, even if you’re the type of fella who mildly enjoys the occasional stinky pinky – a medical and clinical prod ‘n poke wouldn’t be all that wonderful anyway. So, basically we avoid it like the butt-dentist.

fdbf0378a0023ce2fa85838155240c39Take it like a man.

The prostate is a donut-shaped gland that creates goop to protect your sperm. So, why should I care since I just had a vasectomy and don’t really need a sperm security system? Well, the real pickle in the pooper occurs when the prostate gets all messed up and inflamed. Then, it gets in the way of important stuff like peeing, ejaculating and getting a big ‘ol erection. Oh, and then it can kill you. In the butthole.

Anyway, I got myself checked earlier this year. So, if you’re wondering what to expect, here are some basics:

• Prostate exams are performed by Urologists, Oncologists and some questionably qualified Primary Care Physicians.
• Unfortunately, these doctors are not listed by ring-size. I mean, the last thing anybody wants is Dr. Dikembe Mutombo waiting on the other side of that door. You’ll just have to get a referral or risk it. I was lucky. I got Dr. Tyrion Lannister.
• Eat some cabbage, drink some coffee and read a newspaper. Just make sure you drop a deuce before you go. The more stuff in the way, the more time he will need to spend fiddling around down there. Besides, this is the last guy you want angry.
• The waiting room will be filled with a lot of old men with yummy colostomy bags. Don’t run away. Let it be motivation.
• Dr. Jellyfinger has heard all your rectum jokes before. Don’t embarrass yourself.
• The preferred stance is leaning over with your elbows on the table, pointing your knees and toes inward.
• Dr. Manicure will put on rubber gloves and scoop his finger through a tub of industrial fart jelly.
• He will then tell you to relax and breathe easy. And then this happens:

digi-buttMooooon River.

I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that this is fun. It’s uncomfortable – both physically and emotionally. The best thing I can say is that it doesn’t last very long. The finger goes in, swirls and twirls around a bit, and then focusses on the prostate itself. And trust me, you will know exactly when he starts mashing on your prostate. It has a feeling all its own. Try not to clinch.

Before you know it, Dr. Butter Finger will be popping off his glove and pointing you to the bathroom. It is in this porcelain fortress-of-solitude that you will be left to shamefully clean up and feel sorry for yourself. If you need to cry, this is the place. Just be careful which tissue you use.

Is it a good time? No.
Is it worth it? You bet your ass.

When detected and treated early, prostate cancer has a whopping 97% success rate. That means, if everybody went out and got checked and fixed in time, that ridiculous number of 30,000 U.S. butt-death victims-per-year would go down to only 900 U.S. butt-death victims-per-year. And instead of 1-in-6 men walking around with prostate cancer, there would only be 1 in 200.

So, go get checked out. Especially if you’re over 50. Because if you think another man’s finger in your farter is absolutely terrifying, it’s nothing compared the painful and bloody anal alternatives. Seriously.

Oh. And grow a mustache.

Movember Website
More About Prostate Cancer

CDR457840 digital rectal examI just wanted to post this.

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.