I'd considered getting a vasectomy for several years, but somehow something always prevented me: the color I wanted wasn't in stock; they were out of my size; a complete stranger would insert sharp instruments into my own personal genitalia and, you know, snip... But last year seemed the right time. At 50, I didn't want any more kids, because of how they are tiny little shit- and mucus-spewing midgets with speech impediments, and I see enough of those at work. (I'm filling in as one of Snow White's dwarves, Nasty; heigh-ho, heigh-ho, be-otch.) Also, my girlfriend at the time had not the barest clue about the efficacy of her preferred method of contraception, the sponge.
Pace Elaine Benes, hey, you know what's more effective than the sponge? Everything! Even the rhythm method, and by "rhythm method," I mean of course putting a very small bongo on my penis. (Er, I mean, a very large bongo. Huge, even.) We were--at my insistence--using condoms, and just to be on the safe side, I would spray us both down before and after with industrial-grade spermicide. Seriously, I really don't like kids.
(My own adult daughters are awesome, though. Hi, girls! Don't send me to a home when I get old!) (I can all but hear them now: "What do you mean, 'when'?" You see what I mean about kids?)
No offense to you if you are an older parent or hoping to become one, but if you are an older parent or hoping to become one, you are an idiot. Really? You want to spend your 50s and 60s smelling like piss and vomit? (I mean, someone else's piss and vomit.) You know how old you'll be when your kid graduates from college? Dead! (If I have to kill you myself.) Plus, it's really damn embarrassing when your colostomy bag ruptures at the PTA Bake Sale. I would like to take this opportunity to say again: sorry about that, Mr. Osterman. I totally thought that thing would stand up to a little smacking around.
My GP's referral in hand -- she agreed that my never again reproducing could only make the world a better place -- I met with the surgeon, and immediately saw a few obstacles to overcome:
- They would not give me general anesthesia or sedatives during this minor procedure.
- This minor procedure was to take place in and about my own personal genitalia.
After the surgeon, his nurse, my then-girlfriend and several burly orderlies had wrestled me to the ground and convinced me to stop shouting, "Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!" (very like any Friday night chez Elliot), and after the then-girlfriend had promised me Xanax for the operation and indeed for signing the release forms, I did sign those forms, made an appointment for the procedure, and went home to wait and bid all 100,000,000 of my bestest little pals ever farewell. 'Bye, Blitzen! 'Bye, Fluffy! 'Bye, Tiny Bill Clinton!
The then-girlfriend brought me the Xanax the morning of the operation. Since I'd never taken the stuff before, we thought a half pill would be sufficient to see me through this minor procedure. A few hours later, lying on the surgeon's table, I realized I'd made some mistakes, among them: taking only half a Xanax, showing up for the operation, and dating Sponge-Barb Crazypants. (I'd really only feel that fully after the breakup, unlike the 16-inch syringe full of, apparently, Sierra Mist mixed with sulfuric acid that the anesthetist was at that moment jabbing into my own personal genitalia.) You know the problem with drugs? Sometimes you don't take enough of them. Oh, and that addiction thing too. Whatever.
However worrisome it might have been to see the anesthetist flicking the blood pressure display to loosen the needle (it was digital), the numbers decreased eventually, and recovery consisted of lying around doing nothing but holding my crotch, my very best thing. The aftermath was relatively painless--good thing too, as I strongly suspected I was allergic to the pain meds the surgeon prescribed:
Nor did I swell afterwards, as some guys do, which disappointed me a little, as I'd hoped to make some way-cool videos. Seriously, I think "The Adventures Of Scrotie the Giant Ball-Sack" would have totally gone viral.
So a year later, I'm happy to say that my Match.com profile summarizes my prospects for future offspring thusly: "Not without divine intervention." Indeed, asked by a recent sweetheart whether I'd consider having more children, I replied, "If you have a child with me, feel free to name him Jesus." It's freeing, one less worry as I set out to make some drastic changes in my life. Next up: relocating all my internal organs to the outside. (They're way easier to keep track of that way.) Um...anybody got any Xanax?