“Nurse, part of his vans popped out and it’s on the floor.”

That’s an actual quote from an actual doctor who was actually cutting in to my balls. And just to clarify the object that popped off weren’t Vans like Spicoli wore. No, it was a piece of my vans deferens tube. Yes, the pipe that allowed me to sire three raging Fozz Spawn has been cut off forever.

Jesus Christ almighty was it an unpleasant experience. And because I’m a dyed in the wool bastard, I’m sharing it with you mooks. (Also, I have had a dose of hydrocodone and a few mouthfuls of Breckenridge bourbon. I am, as they say, kind of tuned up.)

Onward.

So I signed up for this fucking ball cutting because my wife wouldn’t get her tubes tied. Apparently “Carrying and delivering your three maniac sons are enough.” That’s her fucking job, am I right fellas?

But, but, but when you get your tubes tied THEY PUT YOU TO SLEEP. They don’t keep you awake. I guess man’s punishment is to deal with shrill women, fuckface bosses, and getting his balls cut. Well, if you’re gay then no ball cutting. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

I get into the ball cutting room and there is a gigantic jar on the table, which is stuffed with torn tickets. There are about 29 hopeful nurses waiting for me to draw the winning ticket. The winner gets to assist the doctor, and help move my massive member around. Kidding, it was one nurse. She was as Irish as you can be without having your pubic hair cut in the shape of a shamrock on St Patrick’s Day.

The prep work before the ball cutting is FUN! Yes, you get a dry shave; my balls are now as smooth as Peyton Manning’s buttocks before they are accidentally shoved into a trainer’s face.

Next, you get your dick taped down. Yes, the Lightning Rod, as it’s known in my head, was pulled straight, taped down, and left to struggle for its life. Scarlett Johansson and Alison Brie could have been performing a naked gymnastics routine, followed by a frolic in the shower, and that fucker wouldn’t have been able to move.

Next the doctor says, “You’re gonna feel a pinch.” No, motherfucker, you are not going to feel a pinch. You’re going to feel a fucking NEEDLE enter your sac and go into your balls. Even though your hairy beanbag has been coated with some kind of “numbing solution”, IT’S A FUCKING GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING NEEDLE IN YOUR BALLS.

Full cold sweat across your body. Biting your tongue. Gripping the sides of that operating table so hard you leave marks on the metal. And of course, that good old freight train of pain that slams into your fucking lizard brain whenever your cubes get grazed. Also, nausea. Also me saying, “Fuuuuuuuck.”

The doctor says, “Sorry, didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Yeah right, you sick fuck! I bet your middle name is fucking Mengele.” No one laughed.

Then you feel some tugging and then you think maybe your balls are getting smacked around like mini punching bags. Every spy movie – every movie scene where they’re torturing a guy and he won’t give up the info – is complete and utter Rex Ryan Shit. I would have traded one of the Fozz offspring to get the fuck out of there.

Then it’s over. Well, they have to RIP THE TAPE OFF THAT’S HOLDING DOWN YOUR COCK! Then it’s over.

The nurse gets you cleaned up and gives you a cup and says, “You have to provide a sample of your sperm after 15 ejaculations.” And I laughed and laughed and sent a text to Mrs. Fozz that said, “Regulators mount up and ride!”

I came home, iced my nuts and then my neighbor came over and I took a hydrocodone, drank a few Raging Bitches, had a bourbon and then tried to navigate dinner.

That’s it. I hope you all have been able to finally exhale.

I have to go lay down on the couch and pretend it doesn’t feel like my shorts are stuffed with bruised plums.

Thing That Made Me Happy

A recruiter called me and he sounds competent. In this case, competent means he’s not a drooling hydrocephalic that jacks off in his pants and finger fucks stray dogs.