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I have been undone. I have been de-manned. I am as impotent as a lame duck elementary school fifth grade president. I am vasectomized.
I do not know how to best do Part II. Should I explain it as it happened in the past? Or as I "live-blogged" it in the present? In the interest of accuracy, I have chosen neither.
The longest part was the pre-night preparation. Let's not split hairs: I am one furry dude. I'm pretty sure I could convince even the most hardened anti-evolutionist that at least *I* descended from monkeys. It took me over an hour to shave my nether-regions, and my razor tried to flee on multiple occasions.
About 45 minutes before go-time in the procedure room precisely labeled "VAS", I was asked strip to my t-shirt only in front of a delightfully handsome young man. Phew, he didn't laugh or point at my small genitalia. I mean...OK, I would never make Peter North jealous. He did spray something on me and warned that it would be cold, but it did nothing to enlarge my manhood. And that's when the fun began!
So, let me tell you about the next 45 minutes of my life. Imagine listening to BOB FM through a vasectomy. I did. On my back. The music!, OMG! Def Leppard? Are you kidding? Look, supposedly, BOB FM won't play polka music, but I would've sold my soul for the Dujka Brothers or anybody singing "Hills of Shiner." Def MF Leppard??? When music sucks 20 years ago, it still sucks today. And it never got better.
After those dreadful 45 minutes, the Doc finally walked in, strutting to the heady music of Toni Basil's "Mickey." I kid you not. I am not imaginative enough to consider a 65-year old doctor fondling my testicles to "Mickey." The good Doc asked only two questions: did you take your Xanax?, and do you have any questions? Yes and no. Upon my "No," the doctor dug into my testicles like he hadn't seen a ball sac in a week. I'm pretty sure I heard him growl at some point.
After feeling me up like no prostitute, or even my wife, had ever touched me, he began in earnest. Grabbing my right side in a Vulcan testicle death grip, he said that I was going to feel a little pinch. If being stabbed by a +10 broad longsword is like being pinched, he was dead on. Otherwise, he was a big effing liar. After about a minute of the worst pain I have ever felt in my nutsicles, he dug in. I never dared to raise my head, nor did I ever dare to relax my legs. Eventually, I began to have muscle spasms in both of my hip flexors and my quads. Knowing and feeling what I was feeling, EGADS!!!!, I was feeling a lot of hate.
Of course, not content to unplug righty alone, he proceeded to lefty. Again with the pain of the novacaine shot which, I swear, is akin to being stung by a handful of rabid bees all at once.
Just 10 minutes after the stabbing and groping and outright crying began, it was over. Unfortunately knowledgeable when I'm being sewn up, I knew he was done. The Doc stood back to admire his work, pride (and what might've been a pint of whiskey) gleaming in his eye, announced he was done and abruptly left the room, leaving me asking the same question that has so often been asked of me: is that it?
A different handsome young man entered the room - sheesh, isn't there a chick in this place? - and told me that it was over and I was free to go. It was over? Oh yes, it was over. I watched as he put a couple of pieces of me in little plastic containers and tossed them away like empty beer cans.
So, it's over. There are so many women around the world - and especially Newsvine - who are weeping that will no longer be able to carry my children. The best I can offer is...I've got no substitute. There is nothing akin to carrying my children, who never fuss in utero and come out within 60 minutes of starting labor. Nothing.
And that, my people, is my vasectomy true story.
Hugs and kisses,
The Love Machine formerly known as bigfatdrunk
This is Part II in a series that had better end. Here's Part I
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