This Story Has Got Some Cajones…

Attention gentlemen friends and colleagues: If you need to discontinue any direct connection with your nads, I know a guy.

So, today was V-day. A time to turn my actual family of five and my dream of a family of five into a permanent reality of a family of five.  The bilateral vasectomy they call it- as if a unilateral vasectomy is another option.

Before I begin with the nuances of outpatient male sterilization, let me take you back to the eve of my voluntary nut-sack assault. I had what I would call a ball-bag breakdown. I saw this coming – after all, external though they may be, I feel pretty close to mi cajones. So after work yesterday I took my giggleberries and sat them down on a barstool for a little reflection. Funny as it seems, I didn’t reflect on my inability to have more kids – I was well past any regret there – rather I waxed philosophically on the theoretical detachment. I’m not sure I really cared, but it made for a splendid excuse with the Mrs. to disappear for a beer and some alone time with my bollocks. I think I made up the reflective part to buy sympathy and understanding – I knew it would work.

So today I awoke and performed my usual morning routine. An athletic supporter would be in order I was told, so I ventured to the sporting goods store where I also picked up some wiffle balls (no pun intended) to replace the ones I cut up with the mower (damn, the unintended puns get better and better). Then, on to the doctor’s office where I spent 45 minutes in the waiting room trying to figure out which fellas leaving had just had their gonads snipped. In good time I was brought in and asked several times if I was sure I wanted to go through with this. A no-brainer in my book, but I appreciated their concern.

The procedure itself was a breeze, less for a needle being somewhere you wouldn’t want it to be. I quickly realized that if not for the needle, I would not have been able to laugh and joke with the doc and the nurse as they clipped vital guy-tubes. We talked about favorite beers, and I verified that I could imbibe post-surgery with no issues – good for me. In less than ten minutes I was dressed and on my way out the door – barely aware that my nuggets had been worked over. You leave there like any other doctor’s appointment – apparently no worse for wear.

That is, until about 45 minutes later while stuck in traffic on the way home. The local anesthetic wears off and you begin to wonder at what point a mixed martial arts fighter attacked your knackers.

With the huevo-pain-clock ticking, I quickly stopped by the beer distributor and picked up some of the doctor’s suggested remedies. Then me and my bruised avocados made our way home. Of course, with three little ones this is where things can get interesting. Thankfully the Mrs. was able to prevent substantial damage with a pretty good “daddy has a boo-boo” campaign, and the climbing, jumping, and “hold me!” was put off for a spell ┬áPlenty of time for that after the yam bag is at 100 percent.

The only other thing I have for you is this: stay away from the beers in my fridge – I’m not sure what’s wrong with them, but I’ve been drinking them all day and my balls are KILLING me!