So I will be out for the next few days. I struggled with sharing this, because it’s way personal and is well into the land of TMI… but I weighed that against the honesty I normally show when it comes to blogging about me and the carnival of unending shame that is my life. Honesty ruled out… so you get to read an entire post about my ugly, mishappen, nutsack.
That’s right, I said nutsack.
And I say nutsack because – tomorrow – I’m going to the doctor to get myself fixed. That’s right, dear reader, Doctor Zombie’s going to get hisself neutered, fixed, gelded, and de-seeded.
I’m going in for a vasectomy.
I have to say the decision was not an easy one to make. I mean, what man in his right mine willingly signs up for elective surgery on their junk?!? I mean they’re going to shave the wrinkled, underside of my evil and then proceed to cut into it and mangle my precious and irreplaceable vas deferens. Sharp things… by my balls and in the same neighborhood as The Little Zombie. Sharp things!
Excuse me while I shake the shivers of horror out of my spine.
But after careful consideration, and some considerable threatening on the part of Mrs. Zombie, I’ve decided to take a huge one for the team. As it’s less invasive as the counterpart procedure would be for Mrs. Zombie, and as I was threatened with a retaliatory end to my sex life for at least the foreseeable future… I was convinced that my undergoing the surgery was the best thing. In other words, I caved in and Mrs. Zombie won.
I’m man enough to admit it.
And I’m also man enough to admit that I’m having it done under complete, knock-my-ass-out-because-I’ll-be-damned-if-I’m-going-to-be-awake-for-the-mangling-of-my-manhood anaesthesia. The doctor gave me the choice of having it done with a local, or of having the full blown unconscious treatment and I decided on the latter. Mrs. Zombie thinks I’m being a wimp about it, but I decided on the alternative I did because… truthfully… I want to luxuriate in the sweet arms of Morpheus, the god of sleep, throughout the entire, traumatic experience. All week I’ve been hearing about how I’d never be able to deal with childbirth, and it’s just a simple in and out surgery, blah blah blah!
Bullshit, says I!
I have an extremely high threshold of pain. Extraordinarily high (remind me to tell you to tell you sometime about my nipple piercing – and the subsequent tearing out of said nipple ring). And I knew I would most likely have no problem enduring the procedure under a local. But you know what? I DON’T WANT TO.
I was given the choice, and I’m taking the easy way. As I told Mrs. Zombie, I may be taking one for the team, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy on you! I’m going to milk this for all it’s worth!”
Besides, I was stupid and did a Google search on vasectomies about a week ago. Big mistake! Now I’m all worried that my kiwis are going to swell up like two misshapen circus dwarfs and I’m going to have to suffer the indignity of pushing them around in front of me – in a wheel barrow - for the next two weeks because I can’t afford to take anymore time off with either of my jobs.
Never mind the fact that they’re going to shave my sack tomorrow. Can the shame get any worse? Now I’m not adverse to a little manscaping now and again. Or, in my case, it’s more like deforestation. I’m a hairy bastard and the euphemistic term ‘manscaping’ doesn’t capture the process. It’s more like someone needs to fly an Army chopper over the area of operation and airdrop Agent Orange like they did in Vietnam. I resemble a sasquatch, or a Wookkie, below the belt line. Seriously, if I were to try and wear a Speedo… it’d look like I was trying to unsuccessfully hide a tarantula, what with all the hair.
And now – when all’s said and done – and I’m no longer a fertile man, I need to live for several weeks with a shaved and wrinkled marble bag. A grown man should not have to look like a 12 year old boy again. Ever.
Crap. What did I get myself talked into here?!?
I think my buddy Jeff put it best, “Wow. It sucks that you’ve got to do that. They should do the same thing that they do with dogs when they go the vet. Instead of saying they’re going to the vet to get you fixed, your wife should say, ‘Hey, let’s get ice cream!’
“You’ll be all excited for ice cream, right until you pull up to the urologist office. At that point, the horror will set in. ‘Hey!’ you’ll say, suspiciously, ‘this isn’t the ice cream store… this is the doctor’s office where they… No! NOOO!!!’ Then, when your wife pulls you in to the doctor’s office by your collar, your paws pushing ineffectually at the linoleum floor in an attempt to escape, you’ll at least have only a few minutes to ponder your fate before they gas you and begin the un-sperming of your manhood.”
The sad thing is that I’m pretty sure Mrs. Zombie would probably get some sick, twisted pleasure in my waking up all groggy with one of those cone things on my head.