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How to Fix a CrakGenius – Part 2

October 11, 2012

To read part 1 first, click here.

My Horrible Vasectomy

So, the time came when I decided I really needed to go out and get the ol’ snip ‘n’ burn done (that’s what I like to call a vasectomy… it horrifies men who haven’t had one). After all, I had produced a matched set, one son and one daughter. So, I figured my job at procreation was done. Okay, there was one other factor that contributed to this decision: my health insurance at the time was really awesome and would completely cover the procedure. So I was decided, I’d go through with it, even if the thought of it made me squirmy and nauseous.

First I had to tell my doctor that I wanted to be referred for a vasectomy. He asked me if I knew what the procedure entailed, and when I said that I did, he went ahead and explained the procedure IN GRAPHIC FUCKING DETAIL anyway. He gave me a pamphlet on the horrors of vasectomy*, and THEN gave me a referral to a urologist. This wasn’t exactly off to a great start. Then, I met with my urologist. He looked like Art Garfunkel in a lab coat.

…like this, only the skin on his face was the same color as the skin on his hands.

He was a bit quirky and odd, and forgetful. He kept having to leave the room for things he’d forgotten. I was beginning to worry that he might leave his car keys in my sack if given the chance. I tried to make jokes of the situation, saying things like, “Hollie said I should go get myself fixed. I didn’t even know I was broken!” (NOW the blog title makes sense!) This, he took seriously, and wanted to make sure this was MY idea and that I wasn’t being coerced into it. I shouldn’t be a smart ass 100% of the time, apparently.

Finally he checked my prostate. Yeah. I didn’t know that was part of the process, either. But it was, and I didn’t cry or anything. Okay maybe I sobbed into my pillow that night when I went to bed, but at the time I was awesome about it. Then I met the woman who would be assisting in the procedure. Her name was Helga or Olga or something old eastern European women are named, which was appropriate because she was an old eastern European woman. Someone matronly who would probably either hold my hand and comfort me, or say “stop whining like girl! Be strong man and take testicle torture without crying!” Which, really, either approach would work.

And then the date for my procedure was set… one month later. When I asked why I had to wait a whole month, the answer was, apparently, that over 80% of men who set the appointment to get a vasectomy will back out of it. Setting the appointment a month later gives the office time to clear the schedule when people chicken out. Now the horror pamphlets* made sense. If you made it past those, and past the second round of torture, then through the one month waiting period, you were unlikely to run screaming from the operation at the last minute.

Unlikely?  Sounds Like a Challenge!

The day came, and I didn’t chicken out.  I sat in the waiting room, nervously thumbing through outdated magazines until my name was called.  I was taken back by Helga/Olga to the room where the operation would take place.

Helga/Olga: Undress from waste down and put on hospital gown with ties in front.

Me: Ties in the front?

Helga/Olga: Ties in front for easier access.

Me: Sheesh, why am I wearing a gown in the first place?

Helga/Olga: (shrugging) Wear gown, do not wear gown.  Makes no difference.  I will still see your thingy.

“Thingy.”  This is the last word she said as she left the room.  Once I pried my face from the palm of my hand, I began undressing.  I put on the gown and tied it in the front, as instructed.  Now, you know when you put on a hospital gown and no matter how tightly you tie the strings, your ass still hangs out? Yeah, same thing here, only instead of “ass” insert the word “penis.” (And that, my friends, is my horribly wrong SEO search term of the blog**!)

Then I sat and awaited my fate in the operating room.  The cold, cold operating room.  Finally Helga/Olga returned… only she was not alone.  Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce nurse McHottie.

I’m using an image of Heidi Klum, because my Google images search for “hot nurse” returned… well pretty much what you’d expect that to return.

My mind started racing. Was this in the pamphlet?  I don’t remember ever meeting this person!  Why is she here?  Am I being punk’d and why the hell would ASHTON DO THIS TO ME?!

Helga/Olga: This is nurse McHottie.  She’s new and will be assisting today in prep and be present during procedure.  You’re not minding this?

Me: Uhm.

Here, I’m wedged tightly between a rock and a hard place.  If I say “FUCK YEAH I MIND,” then nurse McHottie (not her real name) would feel self conscious, I’d look like a wimp, and not to mention McHottie wouldn’t get the training she needed.  On the other hand, I really didn’t want her involved in the prep of my ball surgery.

Me:  (probably 75 shades of red at this point) Oh, no. Of course not.  That’s fine.

Helga/Olga: Okay.  We begin with shaving area.  McHottie, get shaving cream and razor from the cabinet while I expose the patient.

Oh dear lord, no.  Did she have to use the word expose?  Moments later, I can feel the cool air of the room on my… region.

Helga/Olga: All ready.  Now, McHottie, simply hold the penis out of the way and lather entire scrotum.

OH DEAR LORD, NO!  McHottie’s going to GRASP MY DONG and SHAVE MY BALLS.  Come ON Ashton!  This has gone far enough!

McHottie: This might be a little cold…

I’m not here. I’m not here.  This isn’t happening.  I’m not here.

McHottie: I’m sorry, did you say something?

Me: (Opening my eyes) Hm?  No I don’t think so.  Did I?

McHottie: It sounded like you said ‘not here.’  I didn’t cut you, did I?

Me: Oh.  No.  I didn’t mean to say that out loud.  I was convincing myself that I wasn’t here.

McHottie: (giggling) Oh.  Don’t worry, it’s supposed to be a very quick procedure.

That’s what she said.

After I was freshly shorn and METICULOUSLY washed, I was somewhere between horribly embarrassed and deathly afraid that we had crossed the point of no return and this shit was REAL.  Dr. Garfunkel joined us and before I could say otherwise, things were getting underway.  He gave the local anesthetic ample time to kick in as he asked a series of probably important questions, none of which I remember.  Helga/Olga stood by a tray of operating instruments, while Nurse McHottie took a step back to where she could observe.  Finally, the time came… and Dr. Garfunkel made the incision.

Me: (Eyes popping open) Whoa… should I be able to feel that? I think I felt something.

That’s when I caught the look of disgust on Nurse McHottie’s face.  Total revulsion.

Dr. Garfunkel: Mmmm not to worry.  It’ll all be over soon enough.

I remember VIVIDLY thinking that is SO not a fucking answer to my question.  THEN I felt… more.

Me: Okay I definitely felt that one.

McHottie: (Looking ill) Is it normal for him to feel that, doctor?

Dr. Garfunkel: Yes, yes.  Everything’s fine.  Nurse Helga/Olga, I need a sponge here… and here…

Me: Uhm… I might throw up.

Dr. Garfunkel: (Concerned for the first time) Really?  Okay. We can stop for a moment.  Nurse McHottie, bring over that plastic bedpan in case the patient needs to vomit.

As she walked over, she clearly mouthed the words “I’m so sorry” to me.  What the hell?  SHE was sorry?  I was the one with my scrotum being worked on by Art Garfunkel.

Dr. Garfunkel: Okay, let’s finish the procedure.

And.  Then. I. Vomited.

I hadn’t eaten for .. 12 hours I think?  Whatever period of time they tell you not to eat.  But I live in the damn desert, and I had drank quite a bit of water that day.  Which, at this point, was all coming up.  And that was it, the tipping point.  The final gross cherry atop a nasty nasty cake… which sent nurse McHottie reeling for the door to go somewhere and vomit.  She made it to the trash can, fell to her knees, and retched.

Dr. Garfunkel: (sigh) It’s SO hard to get good help these days.

In Summary

When you, or your man, goes to get the ol’ snip ‘n’ burn… DON’T let the trainee stay.  Hot or not, man or woman, you do NOT want your procedure to be the first one they witness.  Also, don’t eat or drink before the procedure.  SERIOUSLY.  They tell you that shit for a reason.

On the upside… my vasectomy was a success.  My excess sperm problem has been eliminated.
*The pamphlet was actually just general information about vasectomy, but really, any printed material on the subject, intentionally or not, IS on the horrors of vasectomy.
**Really, this whole blog is an SEO search NIGHTMARE, isn’t it.

  1. He gave you a prostate exam? And you didn’t even get him to buy you dinner first? Oh honey, they won’t buy the cow if you give away the milk for free … or words to that effect.

    • I think I quoted Fletch, which is pretty embarrassing on its own. “*whistle* you using the whole fist there, doc?”

  2. I did not know very much about the vasectomy procedure. I now feel slightly ill but more informed. Have you considered making this story into a Schoolhouse Rock-style educational music video?

    • Oh, that would be amazing!!! Let me give it a whirl… ahem ahem *cough* *cough*

      And then they’ll stick stick stick stick stick a needle into your scrotum
      (into your scrotum)
      And then they’ll say say say say say that you’ll feel no more pain
      (no more pain)
      But as that doctor slices you open
      And he starts to tug on your balls
      You know that bad bad bad bad feelin ain’t in your brain
      (in your brain!)

      Oh hells yeah! Call up an animator and lets get this thing MADE! I smell Emmy! (or, Oscar… or whatever a schoolhouse rock about ball surgery would qualify for)

  3. “OH DEAR LORD, NO! McHottie’s going to GRASP MY DONG and SHAVE MY BALLS. Come ON Ashton! This has gone far enough!”

    I spit my coffee out from laughing and had to change clothes. Thanks for that.

  4. omfg! I LOVE you! I hope they at least played Burt Bacharach or something to get you in the mood.

    • Burt Bacharach? Is that what get’s a person in the mood for a vasectomy? Who knows. It was probably something which I now have a deep seeded subconscious aversion to… like Barry Manilow or Skrillex.

  5. Ho. Ly. Shit. How have I not been reading your blog? (Is it creepy that the first thing I’ve read that you wrote is about your V-Day procedure?)

    • No, I pretty much embarrass myself on here on a regular basis. If it wasn’t this, it’d be something equally horrible.

      I’ve been SO pouring over your blog since winning that award! Love your art, your writing…. your hard cider! Awesome!

Trackbacks & Pingbacks

  1. How to Fix a CrakGenius – Part 1 « CrakGenius
  2. Blowing on My Fingers Like Verbal Kint « CrakGenius

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