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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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.