No doubt many of you are shocked to read that last statement, what with paper cups being a much “greener” alternative.
You’re probably wondering why I’m being forced to play a little "five-on-one" with the purple-headed yogurt slinger, and to fully understand it, we need to go back in time.
"In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was"…SHIT!! Sorry, went back too far.
Ah, here we are, October '07. After many years of unprotected sex (the bed of nails was the worst), and no resulting pregnancy, Tina and I decided to visit a fertility expert for some testing on our bits ‘n pieces. Tina had the first round of tests performed on her, and in a few days her results came back as normal. I’m not sure what the tests consisted of, but I’m certain it involved stirrups and a speculum, and probably resembled a wormhole in a sci-fi flick.
If she wants to give you the details of her procedure, you can check out her blog at IHeartEdwardCullen.TwilightDouche/GrowUpAlready/ThisBookIsForLittleGirlsNotGrownAssWomen.
Her normal results led me to visit the Center for Reproductive Medicine in Winter Park, Florida, or “Spank Bank” for short. Here’s where it gets fun. You see, all my years of watching “R” rated movies had ingrained into my head that the clinic would be run by supermodel nurses that handed out dirty magazines and nasty pornos, and maintained a general level of sophomoric fun.
Instead, I was led to a 5’x5’ sterile white room with a toilet and a sink with a mirror above it – I guess in case I wanted to (shudder) watch myself “giving the seamen their shore leave”? No magazine, no movie, no supermodel nurses. It can’t get any worse, oh no wait, I just saw myself in the mirror…that made it worse. It is seriously more unwatchable than an episode of “According to Jim.” Now I’m left to my own vivid imagination, and while it worked, let’s just say that you do NOT want to hear my version of “Jackin’ the Beanstalk.”
Leaving out all the degrading details, I finish up, but then I’m stuck in another quandary. I start to wonder how long I’ve been in the bathroom. Was it two minutes or ten minutes? Should I sit in here longer to make it appear like I’m a total stud, but if I’m in there too long will they think I’m playing amusement park with my body? And am I going to get a boner every time I’m in the powder room at my own house? And how do I walk back through the lobby looking all cool, when those people out there know what I was doing. And I know that they know, and they know that I know that they know. SHIT! I did not think this through. I quickly make up my mind to leave. I place the cup in the little metal slot, open the bathroom door, and see a nurse standing there waiting for me. SHIT! I start questioning my "staying power" again, and on top of it my face is flushed and I’m sweating like a dog in a Korean deli. The nurse points me to a side door where I can exit the building. I’m so grateful that I don’t have to make the walk of shame back through the lobby, that I coolly give the nurse a thumbs up and say, “Right on," like I'm some kind of creepy, masturbating Fonzie
Seriously, the last half hour of my life was like an episode of “Curb Your Enthusiasm.”
The results came back that our difficulty to conceive was because of me. It turns out that you can’t get pregnant from butt sex like I had learned growing up. Damn you public schools! Although in retrospect, I may have misheard the teacher. It’s hard to listen when you giggle every time you hear the word “anal.” HeeHee. Anal. HeeHee. It still gets me.
Eventually, we went for a second opinion and the doctor said I was fine, the problem was with Tina. He was obviously much more educated than the first quack we saw.
Later on, we found a third doctor that we used as a tiebreaker. He too confirmed that I was not the issue, and that it was indeed a problem with Tina’s plumbing. This doctor was also highly intelligent, and is likely the king of Harvard or something. After that last visit, we’ve debated on and off for the last year or so the pros and cons of going any further with it.
Baby Fever hit my wife again recently, thanks in no small part to all of our friends, who apparently have never heard of the pull out method. Seriously, one of my buddies is only a few years away from being able to field a softball team.
Today, Tina went through a follow-up “inspection” that involved a small camera. After watching the procedure through the point of view of the camera lens, I kinda feel like renting Stargate.
The next step is for me to submit a “sample” for diagnosis, and essentially just to confirm that my boys swim like Michael Phelps. The good news is that I get to” whomp the walrus” in the comfort of my own home. The bad news is that I have to take it to the facility immediately after instead of falling asleep.I’m writing this as I get prepared mentally to escort my one-eyed prisoner out of his denim cell for his date with “Ol’ Spanky” tomorrow. Not quite sure if it’ll be in the bathroom, bedroom, or maybe just right here on the couch while watching Sportscenter. Either way, I’m gonna have to find some way to dress up this receptacle into something sexier. Maybe tape a picture of Angelina Jolie to it with the mouth hole cut out?
Or make it a game, like perhaps a picture of a Skeeball machine with the 50 point circle removed?
Whichever method I use, I just want you all to remember what I wrote here today. And the next time I try to shake your hand, go for the fist bump instead.
Now if you don’t mind, I have a to go get ready…