I’m currently at the local pizza and beer place because they are having a charity night where part of the bill goes to the music program at elder spawn’s school.
So far it’s a giant MILF party.
The doctor sets his cell phone on the counter and asks, “Okay, I’ve got Louis Armstrong, Pit Bull, Black Eyed Peas, and Red Hot Chili Peppers… What do you feel like?”
“Let’s do Louis Armstrong.”
I wanted to stick with just one unpleasant thing at a time, and really didn’t want him listening to that crap while giving me my long overdue vasectomy. More importantly, if the spirit of “The Black Eyed Peas” slipped into my scrotal incisions before being sewn back up, I would certainly need surgery later to scrape out my then septic nut sack.
There’s nothing quite like the smell of your own vas deferens being cauterized. That’s all I’m gonna say about that.
Now, the tricky part is that my juice needs to be tested after my 20th and 40th ejaculations. Seeing as how my wife and I haven’t had sex in nearly 2 years, this means I have to get a pocket calendar to mark down the days I jerk off, and I’ve really got to step up my frequency.
I need to find a quirky name for this calendar. The only half-witty thing that comes to mind is “Fapruary.” Stupid, huh.