Balls

After the birth of my son Gage, the Anti-Muppet, I had proven myself the manliest of men by creating not one, but two offspring.  Madison, my daughter, had been chosen to continue the bloodline of the one true thumb, and my son Gage, is the manliest man-boy ever to walk the earth.  One day he will kill all the Muppets, either by transforming into a large, toothy dinosaur, or by becoming the Incredible Hulk, I don't think he has decided that yet.  He will accomplish this just as soon as he gets over his insane fear of them.  Hmmm, maybe he is the only sane one, and we, the non-Muppet fearing folk are the insane ones, kind of makes you think...

Shortly after my son (Man-boy, the Anti-Muppet) was born, I quickly deduced  that I now had two children, one girl and one boy.  I was relieved because before that time, I thought I would have to force my wife to bear children until a son came out.  I was also excited, understandably, since I had finally helped to produce a male heir to the throne of the Goodmeat empire.  Madison carrying on the one true thumb thing is cool and all, but you know she is going to abandon my last name as soon as she gets married.  I needed a son and I finally had one.

My son in his "Man-Boy, the Anti-Muppet" costume.

During all this brilliant deduction of mine, my wife, very quickly  decided, in order to forever avoid the supposed "Hell" of childbirth, and to crush my heir-induced excitement, that I should would get a vasectomy.  I think she was in a bad mood that day or something.  I noticed in the hours preceding the birth of our son, she started to get cranky and irritable, and after it was over, she was still a trifle miffed.  I told her I loved her and she told me to "Get Bent!"  I swear I will never understand women.

Note:  For those of you that do not know, a 'vasectomy' is an outpatient procedure performed in the crotcheatic region of an adult male.  This procedure involves severing the 'Vas Deferens' (Dutch for 'the deferens'), in order to stop the spermatozoa (Mexican for 'sperm') from mixing with the seminal fluid that is created in the seminal vesicle (Catholic for 'tiny sponge chock full o' semen').  The whole idea, besides a good reason to cut open a testicle and sever something, is to stop the sperm from getting to the semen, thus preventing unwanted/wanted pregnancies.

So it was determined by my wife both my wife and I that I would get a vasectomy.  I went along with it mainly because I had just seen something large and sticky come out of her cooter and I knew I was partially, at least 51%,  to blame for that.  It was the least I could do considering the situation.

Note:  There is one thing I never understood about the term 'Vasectomy'.  Logically speaking, the word 'vasectomy' in Latin (I assume anyway, it has a Latin-otic sound) comes from 'vas", which I think speaks of the 'vas deferens', and 'ectomy', which pretty much means the removal of something (as in appendectomy, which is the removal of the appendix).  The problem I have is, when you perform the vasectomy, you are not removing the vas deferens.  You are merely cutting it.  I think it should be called a 'vasotomy' (as in lobotomy, the removal of the frontal lobe, or portion, of the brain) since you are only removing a portion of the vas deferens.  If anyone has the answer to why this is, please let me know, I have lost countless hours of sleep thinking about this and I am too lazy/afraid to do internet research.  I am sure if I search on vasectomy, I would find numerous (translation: zillions) fetish vasectomy sites, and I cannot bear to see that, let alone, see that at work.

Shortly after the ball sack decision was made, I had the procedure done.  It was not that bad at all.   Not nearly as bad as I had made up in my head.  I got to take some morphine before hand and after the procedure was done, I got a lolli-pop and a pamphlet that was titled, "Learning to cope with non-functioning testicles."

One thing that worried me was my ejaculatory distance.  I had forgotten to ask the doctor while I was there if I would be affected in any spew-deficient manner.  I asked him on the way out and he assured me that I could still spew like 'Old Faithful'. 

I waddled out to the car and spent the next 24-36 hours with a bag of frozen corn shoved down my shorts.  It was a lethargic, non-mobile time for me.  I did not get off the couch much.  I had to cancel my all of my horseback riding activities, (steeplechase, Kentucky Derby, etc) for the next week.  Other than that, I was alive and I could still pee.  I was 51% happy.

Since the operation, my man-grapes slowly began to realize that they had been robbed of their main purpose.  This made them angry and itchy.  At first, it seemed that they were unaware of the disconnect, but soon they started to catch on.  They keep trying and trying to get the sperm to the semen, not understanding the reason for their failure.  I tried to tell them outright, but they were too pissed to listen.  It was then that my balls decided to start itching more.  This resulted in increased satchel itch-age.  I used to enjoy a healthy ball scratch, but this hundred-fold increase in sack scratch-itude is no longer enjoyable to me.  I have to scratch them all the time.  This makes working with other people difficult.

I don't know what to do.  I am stuck with itchy balls and I suppose I have to live with it.  It was, after all, my idea to get a vasectomy.  Well, at least 51% my idea.