Don't It Make Your Blue Eyes Burn

Well, I promised Bam a post about my recent seminal submissions to my latently homosexual urinologist ( I know it's urologist, but I like the name I came up with better), but I can't for the life of me remember what I was going to write about. My relationship with my wife having improved greatly over the last few weeks, I can't bring myself to write in any detail about her help in the retrieval of said specimens, so it couldn't have been that. What's more, I didn't actually have to walk into the office and watch the receptionist recoil upon seeing the conspicuous brown paper bag, so it wasn't that either (the wife took them in for me because the office is next door to her office). It wasn't the unfathomable discomfort of having to go into the office and ask for the specimen cups because the lady of the house did that for me, too. In fact, I didn't lift a fucking finger in this process - there's something to be thankful for this holiday season.

Ah, yes. I remember now. I wanted to write about receiving the news that I am now sterile. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that. I am now sterile. Not to get too far off the subject here, but I was a little confused about how to react to that. Well, not about how to react to the news itself, but rather how to react to my reaction. Some men my age have received the news of their sterility and gone home and maybe cried a little (if not a lot), comforted the wife, maybe comforted mom and dad about the eternal absence of the promised grandkids. Hell, some dudes might have been crushed – I know I always wanted kids. So it was a little weird for me to want to take the wife out dancing in celebration. I mean, I was fucking elated about finding out my balls are no longer functioning properly. I have since tried out the modified equipment, and the missus said it was better. HELL YEAH!

Anyway, if you read my post about public nakedness you'll remember that I was fully exposed to the mortifyingly stee-ewpid assistant before and during the mind-numbingly painful removal of a small portion of my vas deferens. She's also quite cute, which somehow makes the whole situation 10,000 times worse and she is a patient of my wife's office, which makes me feel like crap because now the silly wench knows the hell her hygienist has to endure when she gives herself to me and she probably feels sorry for her every time she sees her. But I digress. The aforementioned airhead called to tell me the results of the semen analyses a week ago today, and although I was pretty sure what I heard on the answering machine, I found some sort of cheap thrill in calling the office up and making the blonde tell me live. Something about the message on the machine told me that this was one of the more uncomfortable aspects of her job. So I called and asked to speak with her.

She came to the phone and I told her that I had received a message but that my machine was crappy and I couldn't understand it. Keep in mind that I signed some form allowing her to leave the information on my machine, so she was sure that she would never have to talk to the fat Mexican with the small *ahem* again about the contents of his jizz. Oh, the joy of listening to her swallow, shift from foot to foot, scratch the back of her head, fan the smoke coming out of her ears, and nervously hitch up her pants as she tried to diplomatically tell me that I could "…live your life from here on out like you please." She actually used those words. She said everything but "Go home and fuck the shit out of your wife or anyone else you want to, they won't get pregnant but you could still get herpes or the clap or a UTI if you don't use a condom and the person or persons you are ravaging has one of those or any other sexually communicable conditions so be careful unless you are only banging the pretty lady that brought us the cum cups and you are sure that she isn't banging someone else because if she is…." and so on and so on and so on. I swear I was on the phone for 10 god-awful minutes. She probably cried herself to sleep that night.

Damn, I am one mean bastard sometimes. But don't tell my wife, I have her deceived. She thinks I'm a great husband.

p.s. I am now the rarest form of Mexican: one unable to procreate. Hell, Anthony Quinn made a baby and then became a fossil two minutes later. Most men of Mexican descent can cure barrenness in women with nothing more than a good lay. I'm pretty sure we are direct descendants of Abraham. If we stare at a woman's ass long enough, she misses a period and starts producing milk…yada, yada, yada.