I do not mean Victory, Valentine's, Vegas or Viagra. I mean, the day (7 July 2011) when me ol' baby-making equipment was finally Retired In Place. Yes, after a longish career of moderate mischief and a recent turn towards family building, the boys are finally... more or less strictly decorative.
Note: Everything written in this font came from the Wikipedia article on Vasectomy. The rest is from firsthand experience.
Be warned, I intend to steer clear of visual imagery. If you were hoping to read vivid descriptions of testicular-surgery, you will have to look for it elsewhere. Sorry for the inconvenience.
But - you insist - why bother with prudishness? After all, it is nothing more than an outpatient operation. Thousands of my fellow men-brothers have undergone it. A little shaving... two tiny incisions... snip-snap-stitch, pat in the rump and you off you go (to the pharmacy for some serious pain killers).
It is just that I would rather not have my readership (all 5 of you) walking around with images of my ... well you know bouncing around in your head.
All good intentions aside, before I write anything useful and cogent, I do have to go on this tangent for a bit. It's about octopuses.
The night following my male sterilization and/or permanent birth control procedure I found myself swimming through a soupy mood of vague self-pity (Why self-pity? Who knows why. Why ask why. I never do. But it may be meaningful to note that the 11th line down the Wikipedia article on Vasectomy reads as follows: Vasectomy should not be confused with castration, which is the surgical removal of the testicle(s). I KNOW that. Of course I know THAT! Duh, right!).
My wife was sleeping and I was slumpily idling the hours away under the influence of wine, hot tea and a biggish dose of ibuprofen in front of the TV. Animal Planet (a trusty companion of so many late nights) was running "The Amazing Octopus." And who (I ask) can pass on that?
So there I was, marveling at the octopus's smarts (did you know the average octopus can learn righty-tighty-lefty-loosey in only a few trial-and-error lessons... while I still get them mixed up?) when suddenly I was struck by the uncanny similarity (now that I myself had acquired two new small lumpy incisions in my... well, you know).
OK already, enough with the... well,you knows. What I am trying to get at here is this: Have you noticed (of course you have not!) how much like an evil self-propelled scrotum an octopus looks! No, seriously. Maybe you've never considered the familiar cephalopod mollusc in this light (or in any light). But now that you have, go visit your local aquarium and do check it out.
You see? You do, right! OK, you kind of agree, but... why does it have to be EVIL? you ask. Well, the image in my mind is that of the EVIL self-propelled brain of yore (B horror movies). Still not ringing the proverbial bell? Well then how about this, what GOOD could self-propelled genitalia ever be up to anyway!
Now... back to the me-propelled variety. The one housing the glands which I am told - reassuringly - will continue their uninterrupted production and distribution of the hormonal stuff that puts hair (even if not that much) on my chest.
Wasn't this post supposedly about a surgical operation? It was. Supposedly.
To wit - this post was (and remains) about vasectomy. A simple outpatient procedure wherein both of a man's vasa deferentia (singular: vas deferens from the latin meaning "carrying-away vessel") are severed, stapled shut, and the ends are cauterized (all before your very own wincing eyes). Talk about making for damned sure, right?! And still, 1 in 2000 males who undergo the procedure.... remain fertile (WTF!).
As to the operation itself... Due to the simplicity of the surgery, a vasectomy usually takes less than 30 minutes to complete. After a short recovery at the doctor's office (usually less than an hour), the patient is sent home to rest. Because the procedure is minimally invasive, many vasectomy patients find that they can resume their typical lifestyle routines within a week, and do so with minimal discomfort.
Ah yes. Wikipedia, your doc, and the little color-brochure from the hospital are part of the same vast left wing conspiracy cover-up meant to make you believe the operation is no more traumatic than a nail clipping. Not so! Would be v-victims - consider yourselves warned. Would be v-victims' friends and relations - have some sympathy.
Don't you believe any of it! It hurts. It hurts like a m.f. It hurts like a slow motion kick in the balls from the inside. And just when you are given a little breather... you realize you are only half-way through hell - it is time for Mr. Left-side to pucker up and face the needle, the scalpel, the yanking (seriously, there is yanking - no pun intended (for this is no punning matter) - the doc all but put his foot on my crotch, for leverage to yank the (surprisingly rope-sturdy) vas through the tiny incision). the snipping, the stapling, the burning, and the stitching.
Anyway, there you have the gist of it.
See. As promised: no visual imagery.