Scrotum

October 3, 2013

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.

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 25, 2013

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.

September 23, 2013

Talking to your kids about your balls.

As I recover from my vasectomy, an interesting dilemma has unzipped and presented itself. The kids want to know why Daddy can’t wrastle. The kids want to know why they can’t sit on Daddy’s lap. The kids want to know why Daddy is walking so funny.

Ministry_of_Silly_Walks_by_chaplin007Anti-Baby Steps

My daughter is six and my son is nine. The younger one has been easy. As soon as I said the word, ‘testicles’ she started giggling and quickly moved on. Although, now she feels she has license to say, ‘testicles’ whenever she wants. So, she does. And then giggles.

“You want a hug, Daddy? Don’t worry, I won’t hurt your testicles.”
“Be nice to Daddy. He’s got sore testicles.”
“Good morning, Daddy. How are the testicles?”
“Hey, Daddy. Testicles. I just said, ‘testicles.'”

The nine year old boy is a little different. You see, he has testicles. And questions.

“Was there something wrong with your testicles?”
– No.
“Then what was the testicle surgery for?”
– Don’t end your sentence with a preposition, son.

So, how do I tell the kids that I love them more than anything in the world, but there’s no way in hell I would ever want another one of those loud, obnoxious, expensive, dirty, stupid little angels?

“Daddy, why don’t you and Mommy want another baby?”

A. You kids are relentless. You wear me out. You’re lucky I haven’t gotten rid of you already.
B. I love you so, so very much that I don’t want to share that love with anyone else. Except the dogs.
C. Do you really want to share the t.v. with another person? Gimme the remote.
D. Well, if we did have another one, then either you or your sister would have to go.

“But Daddy, only mommies have babies. What do your testicles have to do with it?

A. It’s called sex, boy. Duh.
B. You see, it takes two to Tango. And when you Tango naked, you make babies.
C. Well there’s this thing called puberty – that’s when you get hairy armpits. And when you get hairy armpits, you make babies.
D. Really, son? I don’t think you’ve been using the internet correctly.

“So you would rather have somebody cut into your testicles than have another one of me?”

A. Y’see. It’s not so hard to understand.
B. Well you don’t have to put it that way. They really only cut the scrotum and the vas deferens. Not the actual testicles.
C. It’s not like that. The third one wouldn’t be another you. That would be even worse.
D. No, no – of course not. There’s just no way the next one could be as amazing as you are. You’ve got a booger in your hair.

So, the conversation wasn’t that bad. And I think my kids will be better off for it. And now, I can focus my energy on helping them be the best they can be. And that makes me feel good.

funny-science-fair-131My kids are gonna be geniuses.

In the end, I gave him a quick run-down of some puberty basics. It’s the part of life when you get smelly and covered in zits. And then you want girls to like you. We talked about how there’s a difference between being a kid and being a grownup. And that it’s more than just a driver’s license and a beard. But, when it came to the actual procreating and consummating and gettin’ it on with a little bump ‘n grind-ating, I told him that nine years old was simply too young and innocent for that sorta conversation. He sighed, nodded and said that he understood.

Then we played the new Grand Theft Auto.

 

…

[If you’re interested, the entire snipping story starts here.]

September 12, 2013

Hello, Doctor. Meet my scrotum.

If you want a vasectomy, you go to a urologist. (I had to look that up.) A urologist treats everything from overactive bladders and urinary tract infections to enlarged prostates and spooky scary cancer stuff.

This initial visit does not involve a scalpel – just rubber gloves. They called it a “consult.” Basically, it’s a quick meet-and-greet for the doctor, myself and my naughty bits. I scheduled the appointment for 3:00 in the afternoon. That way, I could leave work early without the expectation of returning. Genius.

Now, the first thing you do at a urologist’s office is the exact same thing you do at any other doctor’s office. You wait. And then you pee in a cup.

Now I’m no expert, but I would have had a diagnosis on this particular warm cup of yellow goodness right off the bat. This guy just drank a bunch of coffee. I considered gorging on a heaping pile of asparagus for lunch. But, I figured that ultimately I wanted these pee-pee professionals on my side throughout this whole ordeal.

So, I hand the cup over to some lucky devil with the best job in the world and make my way to the assigned room.

Enter Dr. Kim.

He closed the door and gave a quick smile. Then came the moment of truth – the handshake. This simple pleasantry could make or break the entire thing.

big_hands_420-420x0Just turn your head and scream.

Good news. He had soft, supple hands with delicate nimble fingers. Expertly manicured nails splashed with a touch of lavender scent glided into a precision grasp and then quickly released within a comfortably measured timeframe.

He asked why I was there, and upon hearing ‘vasectomy,’ he responded, “Oh good. That’s easy.” In fact, he told me that the actual procedure would take less time than the consult. After asking a few more questions, he whipped out a pen and pad. He drew a few amazing pictures worthy of any middle school bathroom stall. Then, he grabbed some latex gloves.

“Okay. Let’s take a look.”

I dropped my Underoos and he put on his glasses. He poked and prodded at some stuff and then pointed at the spot where he would be going in. Front and center. He pointed out one of the actual vas deferens tubes, too. Kinda weird looking. He even commented on how my sparse amount of body hair and low levels of body fat were going to make the whole thing easier and more pleasant for the both of us. I took it as a compliment.

He popped off his gloves. I pulled up my pantaloons. And he sent me to the front counter to schedule my procedure. Easy-peasy.

Feeling reassured and oddly confident, I strolled up to the sliding window and greeted the nice young receptionist with a grin. “Good day, me lady. I would like to schedule a timely congress to partake in a casual vasectomy. Might I inquire as to your next opportune availability?”

“Sure thing. How’s Friday, the 13th?”