My initial vasectomy consultation is scheduled for today and I can’t get this song out of my head:
Snippity doo dah, snippity aye,
My, oh my, what a wonderful day.
None of my sperm is going to stray.
Snippity doo dah, snippity aye.
Mister blue balls getting older,
No child support
It’s so practical.
Everything’s satisfactual!
(Everbody now …)
Snippity doo dah, snippity aye,
Rubberless feelings coming my way!
If you’re staring at this page with mouth agape, you’re either my mother or a fertile woman. Men, can I have an amen? You betcha.
Look, ladies, I turn fifty this year. I need offspring like I need square dancing lessons. If I were to have one of my little guys actually find an egg, that would make me almost seventy by the time Junior went to prom. I’d be riding my daughter down the aisle on my scooter.
I’ve done the math. It costs $800, which is equivalent to twenty morning-after pills, two abortions, or a case of Silver Oak wine. I’ll sacrifice the latter for peace of mind. It is also one-hundredth the cost of a college education, one-tenth the cost of a used car (plus repairs), and half the cost of outgrown sneakers.
I know, I know. “You still need to wear condoms. What about STDs?”
That’s true (and it sucks), but it makes the whole process less stressful when breakage or slippage occurs. Actually, I think I’ve only had a rubber break once in my life. Slippage has happened numerous times. (OK, stop with the tiny penis jokes.) I’m sure we’ve all had that shocking/embarrassing moment when ole Willy leaves the party without his jacket. Then we have to go a-mining—trying to locate the jacket without pushing it in farther or causing spillage.
It’s an art, people.
When I mentioned my appointment to two female doctors I met this weekend, they both said, “Oh my god! Why would you do that?”
Judging by their reactions, you’d think I just toe-fucked a Pomeranian.
“Because I don’t want to have kids.”
“What if you end up with a woman who wants to have kids?”
“Then she can have kids.”
“So, you’d get it reversed, right?”
“Oh, hell no. I’d send her to the bank.”
“You’re awful.”
“Thank you.”
It’s a ten-minute procedure. That’s one-third of the time it takes me to run to CVS, crack open the capsule, and mix it in her OJ.
There is a twinge of anxiety around ball problems. I’m going to have to work through it (with a little help from my sponsor, Johnny Walker). My friend has been dealing with complications from his snipping. It may have something to do with where he had the procedure done: at Señor Vaso’s in Tijuana.
“Basically, I had a reaction that makes my one ball think it’s cold.”
“Huh?”
“One of my nuts tucks itself high against my body.”
“So, you’re a bit lop-balled, are ya?”
“Yup.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah it does.”
“How does one get that fixed? Insert a space heater?”
“No. The doc said he could snip the muscle that pulls it up or replace the ball with a silicone nut.”
“Ouchie.”
“No kidding.”
I wish I could just take a damn pill. Then again, I was with more than one woman transformed into Mrs. Hyde by the pill. I’d probably become emotional and begin watching American Idol and Glee. God forbid!
I’ll document the entire process for you as my service to humanity. Everyone must know someone with whom the song resonates. Now, to this man you can say, “You’re one snip away from a wonderful day.”
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