Ok, gents, it's time for The Talk. You know, the one about what to expect when having your ball sack in for it's 100,000 mile service and useless subsystem disconnect. You will find the prevailing wisdom is that this procedure is both simple and without side-effects. I am here to disabuse you of this notion.
It all starts the moring-of with The Shave. You young bucks are probably already doing this anyway, but to someone born in the 60's, this may be a first for you. Personally, I enjoyed the return to my prepubescent self. It had been years since my junk stuck to the side of my thigh instead of sliding gracefully by, but at least I gained a virtual inch or so of length, if only for a little while.
Next you arrive at the Docs office, where they hand you a half a Valium and a glass of water. "Take this, dear. You'll feel better. Really". A half hour later, it's up on the table and down with the shorts. You don't feel any better. Really.
The Dr., who I will call Moreau for short, takes a long, wistful, appreciative look at you unclipped package. He pulls out a vial of local anesthesia and injects the paper-thin skin of your scrotum with a small needle. This does not hurt, really, no more than a pin prick. Unfortunately, it also does absolutely nothing to dull the sensation that's coming a wee bit later. A couple of minutes to full surface numbness, and we begin in earnest.
A small incision is made. This you do not feel in the least due to the local. He roots around in your sack for a couple of minutes to locate your vas deferens. Once located, he snaps a clamp onto the tube. This you do not feel in the least because it is not terribly sensitive. At this point, the nurse in attendance places a wet rag on your head, crosses your arms on your chest, and pins them there, gently but firmly. You casually wonder why, since you've lashed out at no one. You've been joking with the doc. You're the picture of comfort and complacency.
Now the man who took a vow to do no harm proceeds to pay out your tubing in a motion that you may have seen on that Discovery Channel show about crabbing. Apparently he needs to work at eye level, and lowering his gaze to your crotch is out of the question (and who can blame him?), so he grabs a length of your innards while striking a pose like Da Vinci's Vitruvian man. This you most certainly feel. You feel it first in that way you feel getting struck in the nuts with a 100 mph fastball. Without a cup. It travels from your groin to your midsection to your stomach. The nausea flares. You see stars. Hell, you see God, and he's laughing his sick twisted ass off. You understand why the nurse is holding down your arms because you're thinking of the best way to use them to rip off those of everyone else in the room.
We now move to the sterilization part of the procedure. A pair of scissors and a quick snip later, you're the proud owner of a split Vas. Now this little tube has a strong desire to reunite with its twin in your bag, so extraordinary lengths are taken to ensure that this doesn't happen. You feel like an electronics experiment gone awry as a small clamp is placed over each end and cinched closed. You understand how an IC feels when the hot soldering iron is pulled out and applied to body parts that until minutes ago had never been on the outside, with the sound of an egg hitting a too-hot frying pan. You enjoy the soupçon of seared human flesh lingering in the air. "Wait", you realize. "That's not flux, that's ME!". Most of this happens in a sweaty haze of semi-delirium from the punch you took to the groin. You remember with some nostalgia that day as a child when you fell off the bike, landing on the crossbar.
They patch you up and hand you your purple heart in the shape of a bottle of opioids, then wheel you to the door, where your family picks you up while trying valiantly but failing miserably to not giggle. When you arrive home, you put on a jock strap and best Sunday-football-get-the-hell-away-from-me-where's-the-nacho-cheese-sweatpants. Under those pants, you periodically swap out a new bag of frozen peas, arranging what can only be described as a frozen nest of chilled nirvana. After about a day, you discover that you body has a way of reproducing a color palette you never fully understood available sans broken bone. The grandeur of the hues - yellows, greens, purples fading to black - on your scrotum is so awe inspiring that you post a picture of it to Flickr, where people begin following you.
This is Saturday. On Monday, it's back to work. Like a scene from the Walking Dead, you shamble from place to place, sometimes emitting a grunt of pain when the wind blows too hard. Everyone in the office knows The Shuffle. The men look at you with pity, and some weep openly. But time passes, and the bruising fades just in time for the hair to grow back. You would wonder what to do about the shadow if sex was something that actually registered in your brain as desirable, though fortunately, it does not. You hope to never want sex again. The coup de grace of your emasculation is delivered in the form of handing a cup of your spunk to a tight-lipped nurse a month later in the Search For Swimmers.
Fast forward a year, and you discover that this is the gift that keeps on giving. You sit wrong. You sleep in an awkward position. You find yourself having entire days where The Shuffle is once again your favorite companion. You're sore in a way that cannot be reduced or bargained with - and you have that jockstrap ever at the ready.
It all starts the moring-of with The Shave. You young bucks are probably already doing this anyway, but to someone born in the 60's, this may be a first for you. Personally, I enjoyed the return to my prepubescent self. It had been years since my junk stuck to the side of my thigh instead of sliding gracefully by, but at least I gained a virtual inch or so of length, if only for a little while.
Next you arrive at the Docs office, where they hand you a half a Valium and a glass of water. "Take this, dear. You'll feel better. Really". A half hour later, it's up on the table and down with the shorts. You don't feel any better. Really.
The Dr., who I will call Moreau for short, takes a long, wistful, appreciative look at you unclipped package. He pulls out a vial of local anesthesia and injects the paper-thin skin of your scrotum with a small needle. This does not hurt, really, no more than a pin prick. Unfortunately, it also does absolutely nothing to dull the sensation that's coming a wee bit later. A couple of minutes to full surface numbness, and we begin in earnest.
A small incision is made. This you do not feel in the least due to the local. He roots around in your sack for a couple of minutes to locate your vas deferens. Once located, he snaps a clamp onto the tube. This you do not feel in the least because it is not terribly sensitive. At this point, the nurse in attendance places a wet rag on your head, crosses your arms on your chest, and pins them there, gently but firmly. You casually wonder why, since you've lashed out at no one. You've been joking with the doc. You're the picture of comfort and complacency.
Now the man who took a vow to do no harm proceeds to pay out your tubing in a motion that you may have seen on that Discovery Channel show about crabbing. Apparently he needs to work at eye level, and lowering his gaze to your crotch is out of the question (and who can blame him?), so he grabs a length of your innards while striking a pose like Da Vinci's Vitruvian man. This you most certainly feel. You feel it first in that way you feel getting struck in the nuts with a 100 mph fastball. Without a cup. It travels from your groin to your midsection to your stomach. The nausea flares. You see stars. Hell, you see God, and he's laughing his sick twisted ass off. You understand why the nurse is holding down your arms because you're thinking of the best way to use them to rip off those of everyone else in the room.
We now move to the sterilization part of the procedure. A pair of scissors and a quick snip later, you're the proud owner of a split Vas. Now this little tube has a strong desire to reunite with its twin in your bag, so extraordinary lengths are taken to ensure that this doesn't happen. You feel like an electronics experiment gone awry as a small clamp is placed over each end and cinched closed. You understand how an IC feels when the hot soldering iron is pulled out and applied to body parts that until minutes ago had never been on the outside, with the sound of an egg hitting a too-hot frying pan. You enjoy the soupçon of seared human flesh lingering in the air. "Wait", you realize. "That's not flux, that's ME!". Most of this happens in a sweaty haze of semi-delirium from the punch you took to the groin. You remember with some nostalgia that day as a child when you fell off the bike, landing on the crossbar.
They patch you up and hand you your purple heart in the shape of a bottle of opioids, then wheel you to the door, where your family picks you up while trying valiantly but failing miserably to not giggle. When you arrive home, you put on a jock strap and best Sunday-football-get-the-hell-away-from-me-where's-the-nacho-cheese-sweatpants. Under those pants, you periodically swap out a new bag of frozen peas, arranging what can only be described as a frozen nest of chilled nirvana. After about a day, you discover that you body has a way of reproducing a color palette you never fully understood available sans broken bone. The grandeur of the hues - yellows, greens, purples fading to black - on your scrotum is so awe inspiring that you post a picture of it to Flickr, where people begin following you.
This is Saturday. On Monday, it's back to work. Like a scene from the Walking Dead, you shamble from place to place, sometimes emitting a grunt of pain when the wind blows too hard. Everyone in the office knows The Shuffle. The men look at you with pity, and some weep openly. But time passes, and the bruising fades just in time for the hair to grow back. You would wonder what to do about the shadow if sex was something that actually registered in your brain as desirable, though fortunately, it does not. You hope to never want sex again. The coup de grace of your emasculation is delivered in the form of handing a cup of your spunk to a tight-lipped nurse a month later in the Search For Swimmers.
Fast forward a year, and you discover that this is the gift that keeps on giving. You sit wrong. You sleep in an awkward position. You find yourself having entire days where The Shuffle is once again your favorite companion. You're sore in a way that cannot be reduced or bargained with - and you have that jockstrap ever at the ready.
Put the internet to work for you.
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