So, let's talk about this vasectomy thing.
And I fully understand that the vast majority of you reading this are women, and the obvious reactions and comments will involve comparisons to childbirth, hysterectomies, menstrual cramps, chronic UTIs, LEEPs, and something about making bread. I get that you have it worse, and better, and that you are simply better creatures. I get it.
But today, I want to ask you to put on your phallus and stepchildren (figuratively), look down at your new boy junk as you might normally gaze upon your own girl bits, (and I know you do this, I married one of you) and consider the following scenario.
You are standing in the procedure room with your Urologist and a pretty nurse with nothing between them and your insecurities but a wafer-thin cotton shroud. Despite having spent your life trying to protect your treasure trove from random eyes and injury, here you stand today having given permission to a guy with multiple needles and a small knife to approach your babymaker with intent to maim.
The shroud goes up, and despite the number of times you told yourself that you would not watch the expression of the pretty nurse when door number 1 went up to reveal the 9:30am prize, you look. And though you told your wife that she would be the last woman to gaze upon your self-importance outside of the morgue, today nurse Betty gets to see what 6 months of anticipation and a cold procedure room do to the male form. Blissfully, the shrinkage and scenario force a joke into your mind long enough to miss whatever reaction Betty had to your offering:
"It's like a penis, only smaller."
We turn our attention to Dr. Scalpel, who is intent on avoiding your concerns, and has produced a needle, which he takes under the tent for a little crowd warmup before the main event. Only the needle has brought a friend as well...hellfire. It's a party now.
Next Dr. Beelzebub reaches for his knife, which you immediately think is WAY too small to be a threat, and then quickly scold yourself for wishing for a LARGER cutting untinsel. Shame on you, moron. There are scissors, some snipping, some cutting, sawing, retrieval, more snipping, tying, some origami, and one blowtorch.
"Is it that much of a threat to you, Dr. Jellyfinger? When I was here 6 months ago and you had your arm in my rectum up to the elbow playing proctological hand puppets, you don't think you did enough damage to my self-esteem? Now you want to play matchmaker for your blowtorch and my scrotum?"
As you are standing there drawing a mental image of Dr. Kevorkian's early demise, the sickening smell of burning flesh enters your olfactory awareness, a small wisp of smoke escapes the tent, nurse Betty grimaces ever-so-slightly, and a voice rises from below:
"Don't mind me, I'm just having a weenie roast."
How many times have you said that one, you sick bastard...head swimming now, dizzy, concerned looks, helping you back into your clothes, and some reassuring notes from the doctor...
"We're gonna need you to come back in 4 weeks to give us a sample to make sure everything...took."
Pushing you towards the door now, the 9:35am cutting board is already in the hall. Hands you a copy of your disclaimer and, you assume, your warranty...and directing you to the window to PAY for all of the above.
Now, ladies, I have never had a vasectomy. The wife is asking, and I am considering...but all of the above is what my mind has done to the prospect of being gelded. Will somebody hold my hand? Emotionally, that is...Betty doesnt need more female companionship in the procedure room.
Writer’s Workshop: Winter The Greyhound
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