We're having a baby! (Hey, congratulations!) Thanks inner monologue guy, haven't seen ya in a while. (Yeah, well, you've only written three articles in the past year, so….) Fuck you, I've been busy. (Oh, right. The whole "summer address" thing. Read it, last year…not that impressed.) Anyway, yeah, my wife and I are having a baby.
Practice Sessions
So a good while back I was drinking (What? When did you fall off the wagon?) and my wife said something along the lines of, "Let's have a baby!" Which I understood to mean, "Do you like cookies and cream?" To be honest I fucking love cookies and cream; and like any sensible man who knows he's about to get ice cream I said, "Fuck yeah!"
Just the other day my friends and I were flogging our dolphins in my garage and I thought, Hmmm, it appears I have a sub-par amount of semen. Eventually I started paying attention to what she was talking about and realized I had been tricked. They trickstied us, sneaky little hobbits! Yes Sméagol, they did. (Stick to Star Wars, asshole.) But after some pep talks and booze nights we both agreed that we were "ready" to start a family.
Using the formula "Sex – Contraceptive = Baby" we began "trying to have a baby." The first few months were all fun, but after a while longer than that, the formula didn't seem to be working. So we finally decided to talk to a specialist. Although we ended up getting pregnant the good old fashioned way (drunk), our mission to confirm my potency through modern technology was not without plenty of experiences I felt I needed to share with you.
The Collection
I strive to provide you with a pleasant and comfortable environment while reading my articles, so for this next topic I'd like to take a few moments to talk about masturbation.
No coffee, no sugar, just as much cream as you can cream.The first step of our science project was a semen analysis. Unfortunately for the tightwad receptionist at the doctor's office, she came to discover that I often use humor as a coping mechanism when I get nervous… and damn this receptionist had no sense of humor. She was lucky, too: on the way to the office I stopped at the restroom and washed my hands. I thought about dipping my hand in the bottle of Jergens soap, wiping it off on her clipboard, and saying, "Here ya go, analyze this!" But I decided it wasn't worth the inevitable lecture from the wife, so I went to the receptionist's desk like a relatively normal person.
Receptionist: And what is the nature of your visit?
Me: I'd like to make a deposit in my spank bank. (grinning like an idiot)
Receptionist: (no expression)
Me: (still grinning like an idiot)
Receptionist: (no expression)
Me: (lowering my head in shame) Uh…I have a semen analysis at 2pm.
Receptionist: Fill out the clipboard.
Me: OK. (I should have done the soap thing.)
I took a seat in the waiting room where shortly afterward a nurse opened the door and asked me to come back with her. She directed me to another, smaller waiting room. Apparently there is a special room for dudes who are about to choke their chicken. I took a seat three chairs away from another man.
Me: I'd shake your hand, but I know where it's been. (grinning like an idiot)
Him: (no expression)
Me: (noticing he's playing on his phone) Um, would you mind tagging me when you check-in on Facebook? (grinning like an idiot)
Him: (no expression)
Me: (Damn, everyone here is too wound up. Just rub one out, you'll feel better. Bwahahaha.)
The nurse returned and directed me to follow her. We walked into a dimly lit room about 8 feet by 10 feet with a sink, leather chair, mirror, trash can, and end table/magazine rack. She instructed me to collect my sample, fill out the information on the clipboard, and meet her at the nurses' station when I finished. She then handed me the collection cup, which appeared to be no smaller than a 64-ounce cup from QuikTrip. "There is a minimum sample amount required to run your test, so as long as you have an average discharge you'll be fine." Average? You know, just the other day my friends and I were flogging our dolphins in my garage and I remember thinking to myself, Hmmm, it appears I have a sub-par amount of semen. Maybe I should get that checked out. Average? Look, I Wikipedia a ton of shit, but average semen amount? Nope, never researched that.
The nurse then pointed out the Playboy magazines and asked, "Is there any other material you'll be needing?" Uh…a Chili's menu would be great! Mmmm…you dirty fucking southwestern eggroll. You're a slutty bean and chicken filled little thing, aren't you? What…you brought your friends? You little slut! Hello Tripple Dipper. Looking good spinach dip. Boneless chicken wings, hey girl! Damn chicky wing, you're not going to be boneless for long! (What the fuck is wrong with you, dude?) Okay, I didn't really say that, but I also get hungry when I'm nervous.
The weird thing is, in a Porta-John in the middle of Kuwait, doing hand-to-gland combat was no problem; the only difficulty was finishing before passing out from heat exhaustion. But in a doctor's office there is something strange about trying to put Mr. Kleenex's kids through college. Have you ever tried doing the five knuckle shuffle while being paranoid that you're about to get a shot? Yeah, it's kind of hard to make love to yourself to the smell of rubbing alcohol.
But there I found myself, standing in the middle of my own private whack-shack weighing my options. Let's see, there's a leather chair—no thanks. As appealing as sitting on a leather chair crusted with other dudes' taint sweat sounds, I'll pass. There's a mirror on that wall, which begs the question: at some point in this fine Do-It-Yourself Brothels occupancy did someone actually say, "You know what really gets me off, watching myself get myself off"? Then I couldn't help but think, Are they watching me? So that side of the room was off limits. Eventually I felt the safest and most sterile place was the corner…as if I was masturbating in time-out.
As I began liquidating my inventory I slowly drifted away to my happy place. Taco…. Jedi…. Ferrari…. Princess Padme…. Guns…. The cast of Friends…. Aw, David Schwimmer. Damnit, damnit, damnit…. Focus…. Princess Leia…but not Carrie Fischer Leia, um, Giada De Laurentiis Leia…. Metal bikini and chicken parmesan…. Leia…. Chicken…. Did I have Taco Bell today and yesterday?…. Padme…. Guns…. Aoili Sauce…. Mark Hamill…. Mark Hamill? Get outta here…. Jessica Alba….Cookies and cream…. Cookies and cream in the shape of Jessica Alba…. Padme…. Hmm, there really are only like two women in all the Star Wars movies…. Princess Padme in a whipped cream bikini…. YES! And there I was, four inches away from a pearl bracelet holding a warm cup of Joe (well, 50,000,000 Joes +/- a few million).
Average. Is this average? Fuck…I don't know. Should I add some soap? Why is the goddamned cup clear? I don't want to walk through the hall with this sample size collection. Or is this a lot? Am I part horse? Calm down, dude…breathe. I wonder if they'd be upset if I pissed in the sink? Why is there no bathroom in here? I always have to pee after I play closet Frisbee….why wouldn't there be a bathroom? Average…fuck. Why is the fucking cup clear? Oh, ho-hum, don't mind me, just walking around with a Skeet Milkshake, doe-dee-doe-dee-doe. Why am I so nervous? Why am I sweating…oh yeah, I always sweat. Wait, am I too out of shape to masturbate? Did I just get winded stroking the Squirmin' German? How is it possible to be in an air-conditioned room and get this hot warming up dinner for the Boy Scouts? (ENJOY HELL, ASSHOLE!) Why are my pants still off…well…it does feel kinda good.
All in all the process wasn't too bad, taking just under two hours. Well, it took Pandora about 8 minutes to find the Aaron Neville song I couldn't remember the name of, but the "collection" itself took about five minutes, then I took a crap and fell asleep. When I woke up it was time for the paperwork.
Question 1: Is the sample provided your semen?
Answer: Has this been an issue in the past?
Question 2: What was your method of ejaculation?
Answer: Peanut Butter and my furry little friend here.
Question 3: Did any ejaculate not make it in the cup?
Answer: Trust me, it's not hair gel.
Question 4: At any point did the penis come in contact with the cup?
Answer: Kinda; I poked the bottom of the cup to see if it was into that sorta thing.
Question 5: Do you allow us to disclose the sample you provided?
Answer: Well…disclose with whom? I mean, you're not putting this on Twitter. @Nut-in-a-Cup: DAYUMN! We got ourselves in a sticky situation here (yay, a pun!).
My intimate afternoon by myself was finally over. I walked down the hallway with my paperwork and the cocktail (see what I did there?) and went back to the nurses' station. To my delight, the jovial receptionist was working there. Let the fun resume.
Me: Someone order a cup of Man Chowder? (grinning like an idiot)
Receptionist: (No expression…but in her eyes I could read "you again.")
Me: Whew, got a cigarette on ya? (grinning like an idiot)
Receptionist: In about five days we'll get your results back.
Me: (Noticing the other samples she had) Paying our way through college?
Receptionist: In about five days we'll get your results back.
Me: Do you do parties? (grinning like an idiot)
Receptionist: (no expression)
Me: Okay, I'll leave. (Damn these people are drier than a glass of gin.)
About five days later my results came back. To my delight I have healthy and strong little swimmers! No scratch and dent seed here. But it got me thinking, I'm trying to have a kid…did I just deposit the next Mark Zuckerberg into a cup? I mean, I have no problem shooting the next Stephanie Meyer into a sock, but what if that's Michael Phelps swimming under a microscope? Shit, I guess we'll just have to find out.