I won't be having any kids—ever.

You see, some years ago, I had my balls chopped.

I think it was a wise choice.

In fact, I’d argue that there should be a parade thrown in my honor for having the sense not to unleash another smaller, louder version of myself on the world.

I'm serious. Start organizing this thing right now.

I’d like confetti. I definitely want a band. A stripper might be nice too, but it’s not a deal breaker. I also want a giant Snoopy balloon, and I want a half-drunk Kathy Lee Gifford covering the whole thing with Ryan Seacrest and Dick Clark handling the cutaways.

That’s right, dig that guy out of the mothballs!

Hop to it!

In order to prevent an accident that might have ushered in the end of days  and unleashed what I can only imagine would be the Anti-Christ into the world, I decided at the tender age of twenty-four to get a vasectomy.

A vasectomy is supposed to be a simple procedure—and for the most part, they are. They’re fairly quick and painless, and the recovery time is no big deal at all.

"If you have it on a Friday, you can be back to work on Monday." That's what they say, and for the most part, they aren't lying.

While there isn’t really any pain involved, the actual operation stands to this very day as one of the most bizarre situations I’ve ever elected to put myself into.

The wife made the journey to the doctor with me early on a Friday morning. She wouldn’t be allowed in the actual operating room, but she wanted to be there—you know, for emotional support and all that jazz. She’s sweet like that.

I think she half-expected me to feel like I was losing a part of my manhood or something—like I’d be more Chastity Bono than Chaz Bono when it was over. Personally, I never understood that line of thinking.

Sperm proves I’m a man? Really? The ability to create little idiot versions of myself is the single defining asset of manhood? Without it, I might as well slide into a pair of panties and shove some dude’s wiener into my mouth?

Now you’re just being silly.

We arrived at the doctor’s office, I signed in, and no less than forty-five minutes later he called for me.

The penis slicing service is impeccable.

The first thing I noticed was that my nurse looked a hell of a lot like a young Diana Ross—though I’m not sure if this put me more at ease or less at ease. Diana handed me a couple of pills—which started taking effect shortly thereafter. When I was sufficiently lightheaded, she gave me a gown and pointed me in the direction of a changing room. Once I was changed, it was off to the operating room.

I kept expecting her to break into a rousing rendition of “Ain't No Mountain High Enough.”

She didn’t.

"Go ahead and lay down on your back, baby."

Baby? That was a little informal.

I did exactly as sassy Diana asked.

I was down, and I was comfortable, the pills were doing their job, and before I knew it she was sliding a pillow underneath my head, which in turn made me even more comfortable.

This was going great.

A few minutes later, the doctor strolled in. He was a young guy—mid-to-late thirties with a very big, very round, and very red face. He had cheeks like Santa Claus.


My doctor was Santa Claus, and my nurse was Diana Ross. That’s a double-win in my book. This was going to be a breeze.

Diana rolled my gown up and exposed my most special of areas to the chilly, air-conditioned air. As expected, this caused it to shrink just a smidge. It wasn’t exactly the first impression I wanted to make, but there wasn’t much I could do about.

Why do they always run from the cold, anyway?

Does an Eskimo's dong do the same thing? Is all of Alaska filled with tiny-junked Eskimos and unsatisfied Eskimo women?

I need to find an Eskimo and ask.

To the right of me, Santa was fumbling around with something metal. I could hear some clanking. The sound disappeared when Diana clicked on a radio somewhere behind my head and some ultra-relaxing elevator music began to play.

Just as I was settling into the sweet sounds of a Kenny G cover band, the seventies funk diva wrapped her hand around my pee-hose and tugged.


She quickly unrolled some tape and began taping it my belly. I'd say she was taping him to my chest, but I'd just be bragging—and lying.

My eyes moved to the ceiling. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so much fun after all. Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Maybe I was a little quick to judge. Maybe I let Santa and his chop-happy helper lull me into a false sense of security.

A pair of hands was rubbing something wet onto my sack.

Okay, then.

Now I was getting nervous. I needed to focus on something else—something other than the fact that two people were preparing to slice into the most delicate patch of flesh on my body. The anticipation of the knife on my man marbles was rapidly working its way into my brain. I could visualize the knife cutting—and the blood—and the goop inside.

I desperately needed to focus on something else—on anything else.

I started counting holes in the ceiling panels. I needed to do something and there wasn’t much else available.

2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8…what the hell was that?

Suddenly, there was a breeze where there shouldn’t have been a breeze.
Did someone just slice open my coin purse?

I needed to relax. I needed to ignore what was happening and relax. This wasn’t fun at all. Why did I ever think it was going to be fun? I tried to focus on the music. That’s what it was there for, right? It sounded like an elevator version of "The Wind Beneath My Wings."

I hate that song.

Unable to suffer through any more faux Bette Midler, I went back to counting. I couldn’t figure out where I stopped. 25? 28?

Screw it.

16. 17. 18…what the hell?

Suddenly, I could very literally feel something being pulled out of my marble casing. It didn’t hurt—not one bit. I could still feel it, though.

Something was cut.

Then something was burning.

What's that smell?

It smelled like a fish being poked with a soldering iron.

Holy crap. It was me! It’s me I was smelling! The stringy insides of my hanger pouch was the fish and those sick bastards were frying me up!

A few minutes and a couple more snips, stuffs, and sews later, it was nearly over. The voice of Santa Claus rose up from my crotch. "Okay, Mr. Novak. We're almost done."

I tried to focus my attention on the ceiling and the terrible music—I really did. The sensations and the smells and the weirdness of it all was simply too much to handle.

I started laughing.

I started laughing out loud.

"Everything okay, Mr. Novak?"

I told Santa that everything was hunky-dory and tried my damnedest to stop from giggling, but I couldn’t. What kind of question was that anyway? He was in the middle of stuffing something that felt a little like spaghetti into a slit cut into my baby housing. Everything wasn’t okay. Everything was goofy.

I mean, I was voluntarily paying this man to hack up my freshly shaven testicles and poke at the stuff inside. When I stopped to think about it, it was pretty damn bizarre.

It deserved a laugh.

I spent the next three days walking like a bow-legged pregnant woman moments from giving birth, changing bloody bandages every few hours, and wearing a piss-soaked jockstrap. The entire time my balls were the same color as a rotting prune.

Despite the claims to the contrary, I wasn't completely healed by Monday.

I'm also still waiting on my parade.

Oh, and don't worry about the Snoopy balloon. I've changed my mind.

I want Mr. Peabody now.

Sherman too.

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