Back in the days when my wife and I were still living together (and actually talking to one another) the subject of birth control came up – so to speak. Mrs Kyknoord declared that she was done with the pill forever and that contraception would henceforth be my – um – baby. This seemed fair enough, so I shopped around a bit and after rejecting the obvious non-starters like the rhythm method (which is a rather amusing alternative description for ‘unplanned pregnancy’), the option we eventually decided on was the infamous VASECTOMY [cue lightning flash & rumble of thunder].
Now there is a lot of myth and misinformation* surrounding the procedure, but in truth, it’s about as complicated as going for a haircut (just a little off the top, Doc). All I had to do was plonk my ‘nads on the slab and let the surgeon trim a few tubes while he discussed his unpaid traffic fines with the nurse. If it was any more routine, there would be late-night infomercials for a DIY kit. In total, it took just over an hour from the time I checked in to the time I strolled out the door (doing my very best John Wayne impression). I’ve spent more time in the queue at the Post Office.
The worst part of the whole experience was having to strategically arrange my dangly bits for a week or two. Despite what Doctor Evil may have led you to believe, a shorn scrotum is no fun at all.
* Mainly silly castration jokes