Recently, a very close friend of mine decided to make the ultimate contraceptive sacrifice for his marriage. That's right men. The big "V", a vasectomy.
I, er, my friend, thought that it would be no big deal. Snip, snip, snip, you're done. Safe sex, at least in terms of a monogamous married couple. No one detailed the prolonged period of cold anxiety sweats that would have to be endured prior to the actual operation, or the weeks of pain during rehabilitation to the most personal, scary and misunderstood area of a man's body. By the way, in the interest of decency, I will set a sophisticated, yet clinical tone to this tale and refer to that area as "THAT AREA."
Oh sure, my friend was Mr. Cool walking into the urologist"s office. He'd made an appointment the day before. The first clue that this experience would be more like having red-hot 6-inch screws power-drilled up his nostrils than getting a pedicure was when the receptionist asked him to pay for the work in advance, as if a vasectomy patient could run away before the cashier could get his money. The next step was pretty standard, signing a release form. The signing did give him pause to reflect when he realized he was releasing the doctor from any responsibility - this doctor who was wielding needle-pointed and razor sharp instruments in "THAT AREA." What if he was hung over? Or late for a golf date? What if he in a hurry to see his mistress after the operation? From that point on, though, this "minor operation" became for "THAT AREA" a twilight zone of terror. After all, many scientists and other smart people (actually, mostly just women) consider "THAT AREA" to be the epicenter of a man's soul, the core of his being, his switchboard to life. But that may be going a bit too far (or not).
My friend was led to the operating room by the nurse. He was told to strip from the waist and lay down. She would be back in a minute, she told him. My friend raised his eyebrows. Where were you when I was single, he thought. (Let me clarify for anyone who is ready this, including my wife. I wouldn't have thought that at all, but my friend possibly may have. But I don't even know that for sure.)
My friend dutifully followed the nurse's instructions. Moments later she returned with shaving cream and a razor, a long, sharp, glistening-in-the-light, straight edged razor. Immediately the sweat started beading up on his lip. "I prefer an electric razor, if you don't mind," he said to the nurse. The nurse glared at him, slowly shook her head from side to side, and smiled malevolently. She proceeded.
In a matter of minutes my friend was as bare as a newborn in "THAT AREA." That part over, he was relieved. "It probably won't get any worse than that," he thought, reassuring himself. Then the doctor came into the room. He picked up a scalpel and a hypodermic needle. The scene shifted into slow motion. He moved toward my friend. "Would it be possible to just sacrifice a few limbs to a fertility god, and get the same results?" my friend stammered. The doctor smiled ghoulishly. "In a manner of speaking that's what we're going to be doing." He laughed. Lightning flashed through the window. "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!" my friend remarked. The doctor continued with his labors. "This might hurt a little bit," he said as he drew his needle, making the understatement of the century, in that puckish manner all doctors seem to have.
For the duration of the operation, "AHHHHHHHHHHH" became the operative phrase, so to speak. Much to the astonishment of my friend, as the love life threatening work continued, the doctor and nurse carried on a conversation about every banal subject known to man. (I might mention, though, that the nurse did happen to bring up the subject of a logging company. Personally, I think it was Freudian. No brag intended, for my friend, that is, of course.) For several days after the operation any quick movement brought excruciating pain to the precise area that a man instinctively feels the strongest aversion to avoid pain. For the first time in his life my friend went out of his way to avoid stimulation in "THAT AREA."
As agonizing as the whole event was (and women think childbirth is tough - HA!) it was definitely worth it. At least that's what my friend says. Now with his newly vasectomized parts, when he makes love to his wife he feels like a movie star in an action-adventure movie - he can shoot his gun all he wants, but no one ever gets hit.
Steve Yeich is a humor writer with over 25 years of experience. He has written jokes for numerous comedians who have performed on the Las Vegas strip, most notably Jay Leno and Joan Rivers. He has done various forms of script writing including for movies and TV. He has also written over 100 TV and radio commercials. To see more of his articles go to http://darnfunnyonline.com
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