In the most advanced technical and medical terminology, a vasectomy is a procedure in which the "vas deferens" is snipped in order to prevent maniacal testosterone laden sperm from racing to impregnate the next sexy ovary that happens to come their way. Yes, sperm are complete sluts. Everyone knows the "vas deferens" came to be so named when Vas, the famous Dutch bicycling legend, had a tragic accident while cycling down a particularly jarring mountainous stretch of the Tour De France, repeatedly striking a certain part of his anatomy on the support bar of his bike - and that is why it is always better for guys to ride girl's bikes - but I digress. |
Actually, the names of all anatomical structures are Latin in origin. In the vernacular, "vas deferens" is difficult to translate but most scholars concur its meaning to be something along the lines of "snipping me brings great anguish in unwelcome region of body." And that is why, of course, the Romans invented straight smooth roads, why they laid on cushions for their meals, and especially why they invented frozen peas - but I digress - again.
Armed with this convincing evidence I approached my girlfriend (who thought a vasectomy would be a great way for me to make a valuable contribution to the relationship) in order to alert her to the dreadful dangers associated with this grim procedure. To my great consternation and distress, she didn't even bother to glance away from her book, and just said, "I think your Latin is a little rusty. You just need to put on your big boy pants, march into the doctor's office, drop your big boy pants and get 'er done. Chop. Chop."
"I wish you wouldn't say it quite that way." I implored.
"Just make the appointment, George. My God, can't you handle a little discomfort?"
"It is called intense pain," I replied, "and I handle pain quite well."
She was still laughing when I made the appointment.
Three weeks later there I was, sitting in the urologist's office with a group of men who collectively shared the look of twelve year old boys facing their first public shower after middle school gym class. The staff was almost too friendly, as if they were privy to an inside joke the victims, I mean patients, knew nothing about.
They called my name and as I rose to follow the nurse like a sheep to the slaughter, my girlfriend winked at me and silently mouthed "chop chop" as I exited the waiting room. The nurse was also overly friendly (but not in that kind of way. Pay attention! This is not that kind of story) as she shaved my genital area with what looked like a rusty razor. Maybe it is just me but the mere thought that razor may have been previously used was deeply disturbing.
I was jolted out of my reverie, however, when she pulled a container out of a refrigerator. Smiling, she said, "This will hurt more than anything today," and then proceeded to spray my privates with a fluid colder than ice. I think it was liquid nitrogen, and I briefly wondered if the doctor would march in with a sledge hammer, shatter my frozen balls to pieces and declare, "There - you will never have children again."
But no, it was not going to be that easy.
The doctor did enter the procedure room for real this time, and he also smiled blissfully. In his case he probably still could not believe he made so much money from despoiling testicles.
Regretting my decision, I considered bolting - until I saw the needle - and the horror of its size made me catatonic as I sat rooted to the "procedure" chair, or rack - whatever it is called. The doctor smiled at me and said, "Don't move; we want to get this in the right place, "as he proceeded to plunge the needle into the right side of my balls.
Yes, it hurt a lot. How much you ask? Well, it hurt exactly as much as a needle being plunged into your balls would be expected to hurt - yeah, that much.
"Okay, that wasn't too bad was it?" The doctor inquired, still grinning broadly. "Guess what? We only need to do that one more time."
Before I could react he impaled the left side of my testicles, and yes, it hurt pretty much the same.
I don't remember too much after that, though my girlfriend says I often relive the ordeal in my dreams and that it's not too much of a turn on for her to hear me whimpering in bed. I do recall at one point near the end of the procedure, a burning reek. I asked the grinning physician what it was.
Flashing a smirk, he replied, "your flesh," and he enjoyed saying it. Evidently that's how they seal the old vas deferens so the spunky sperm can't get to the impregnation zone. And that is why I believe I was the victim of a Geneva Convention violation or something pretty darn close.
To my amazement, I did not require hospitalization or ambulatory care to get home, but I was extremely thankful for good old Roman ingenuity for inventing those frozen peas.
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