Your guide to stop making babies begins right here: CHOP.
Yes. Your junk.
Your guide to stop making babies begins right here: CHOP.
Yes. Your junk.
After undergoing my vasectomy in mid-September, I was given orders by my doctor to return in 10 weeks to offer a sample of my goody-goody gum-drops. And during that 10 weeks, I was also given orders to do my due diligence of evacuating my vas deferens.
Like, basically ejaculating everywhere I go, all the time. Welp, this is the 10th week, and I’m delighted to say that I’m right on schedule. In fact, I’m a little bit ahead, thank you very much. The entire family is very proud.
Of course, much of this daunting task was able to be tackled via traditional means with my smokin’ hot lady-wife and the magical powers of imagination. And bath products.
That said – let’s talk about porn.
Noun – (por·nog·ra·phy) /pôrˈnägrəfē/ • Printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings. Induces boners. (Oxford Dictionary)
And looky there – it’s Greek. Who woulda guessed?
It roughly breaks down to “writing about prostitutes.”
Now, I’m certainly no porn expert. But I’m no novice either. And according to statistics, neither are you. At least 70% of computers with the internet visit a site of ill repute every month. I remember the first time I discovered the naked possibilities of the open web. It was Mother’s Day. I thought a spa treatment would be a swell gift for my dear mother. So, I googled, “facial.” KaBlooey! I felt as though I had unlocked some dirty secret wormhole in the universe. I looked around to see if somebody was playing a trick on me or something. It may very well have been the greatest day of my life. Anyway, I got my mom a gift certificate to Half Price Books.
Here are some things I learned during my recent “research”:
Pornography has incredible girth. Seriously, it’s a huge industry. It is estimated to generate upwards of $14 billion a year in the U.S. alone. That’s more than any of the major league sports. Although, I personally consider women’s volleyball to be crossover programming.
Pornography has thrusting power. It leads the way in determining the media technology and formatting of your entertainment. VHS, Beta, DVD, Blu-Ray, cave walls, etc. Booty-clarity has decided them all. (See anal bleaching)
Pornography is geriatric. It has been around forever. Exaggerated genitalia are on the walls of freakin’ caves. As soon as there was a printing press in the 15th century, there was a smut novel. As soon as motion pictures were developed in 1895, there was a smut movie (1897).
Pornography is in your face. It is everywhere. It spans cultures and languages and races and sometimes even species. Photos, movies, paintings, prose and cartoons have all been used. And, it is almost impossible to avoid on the internet. Try this. Turn off the safe-search on your browser and do an image search for anything. Really. ANYTHING. Somewhere, somebody has related it to boobies.
Most importantly, pornography is vast. Endless. It’s rather overwhelming. Whatever you want, it’s out there. Whatever you don’t want, it’s out there, too. Singles. Couples. Big groups. Little groups. Humongous crowds. Animals. Feet. Heels. Leather. Latex. Cheaters. Teachers. Gushers. Secretaries. Babysitters. Whatever.
Choose race. Choose age. Choose your favorite body part, position, nipple-shape or circumcision. Whatever.
Even the taboo gets taboo. Some sites advertise rape, revenge, incest and hidden cameras. Even puke, pee and poop. Whatever.
Furries are people in giant animal costumes. It’s like an orgy on stage at Chuck E. Cheese.
Hentai is hot Japanese cartoon action. With lots of tentacles.
Big Babies are grown men in diapers. Almost always overweight.
And, as they say in the industry, that’s just the tip. I could go on and on forever and ever and ever. But, whatever.
My big date with a plastic cup is in a couple of days. I considered showing up with a one-gallon milk jug full of yogurt, boasting, “Here ya go! 10 weeks!” But, my wife has convinced me otherwise. Instead, I will just turn in my single-serving size of hopefully sterile semen to the lucky boys down at the load lab. If I score a zero, then I go back two weeks later and turn in a second sample to a different lab for confirmation. If that is also a zero – it’s party time. No internet needed.
Oh, you might want to turn back on your safe-search.
As I tug closer and closer to my fertilization-free lifestyle, I can’t help but worry about something – that last chance for a cruel surprise. No matter how careful the wife and I have been before, we must now be extra-super, double-secret-probation careful. No unfettered flurries of frenzied frolicking. No Barry White and tequila shots.
Plus, given our propensity for high-potency procreation, we know not to even come close to the slightest scosche of a scrotal indiscretion. Many of our friends have stories – ridiculously unfortunate bundles-of-joy stories. (Note: The names below have been changed to protect the less-than-innocent.)
EXHIBIT A: Marcus & Holly
Marcus and Holly had already made the decision to the get the procedure done. In fact, the vasectomy had been on the books and scheduled for weeks. A bottle of wine and Fifty Shades of Grey later, they’ve got a positive pee-pee test and I’m a godfather.
EXHIBIT B: Steve & Natalie
Steve had already gone through the surgery. The scary part was over. They found out after the snip-and-clip that they had screwed up beforehand. Turns out there was a sale on Tanqueray and warming gel that weekend.
EXHIBIT Q: Michael & Laura
Michael made the decision, had the surgery, went through the recovery and then waited the entire ten-week period before cracking open the Four Loko. But, he never brought in a sample to the lab for the little teste test. Oops. Time to go diaper shopping.
So the word now is, “caution.” There’s no need to take any unnecessary risks.
It’s dangerous, because I kinda dig my wife. And her parts. One inadvertently sexy sweep-of-the-floor or flossing-of-teeth could result in intimacy. And potentially both financial and emotional ruin for the entire family. We’ve had to take precautionary measures. New rules have been implemented:
Rule #1: Don’t say crap like, “What could possibly go wrong?”*
*Any comment which might be construed as a potential jinx must be counter-balanced with a comment of acknowledgement of said potential jinx in order to un-jinx the jinx.
Banned Actions & Items:
– No tempting of the fates, the gods, Murphy or the kharma bus.
– Do not reach for anything on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
– Do not stand near the fridge.
– No Game of Thrones
– No stretching.
– No trampolines.
– No hot dogs.
– No deodorant.
– Nor showering, flossing, brushing nor bathing of any kind.
– Dick Butkus
– Sofia Vergara
As long as we adhere to these basic rules and regulations, we should be able to avoid any coital catastrophes. It won’t be easy. But as long as we have the support of each other and our dear friends, we know we can remain steadfast in our restraint to reach the greater goal of hanky-panky freedom.
But if you see us on the street, you may want to keep your distance. We don’t smell so great.
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.”
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: Practicing for what?
Girl: Hopping on one foot.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Vasectomy surgery has most certainly had its ups and downs. Literally, figuratively and suggestively.
Some good ups:
A Day Off
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.
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.
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.