For the past five weeks, I have felt a sick sort of excitement about my return to Dr. Gardenburger’s office. I was obviously not looking forward to the obligatory post-vasectomy trouser-drop and the subsequent squeezing of my vas deferens. Why? Because when Dr. G examines your sack, he does so with a level of might and intensity that leaves no interpretation other than that he believes he can draw fresh Florida orange juice from your pee-shooter if he squeezes hard enough.

The excitement I felt was related more to the porn I expected to find in whatever room Dr. Gardenburger had set aside as The Room Where Guys Go To Rub One Out So We Can Check Their Sperm Count. What kind of porn does a clinically trained physician provide to men who need porn for clinical purposes? Is it the standard surgically-enhanced-blonde-meets-excessively-handsome-and-uncircumcised-plumber variety? Or is there a sampling from the various dark corners of pornography, like movies and mags featuring midgets and livestock and people who voted for Perot? I was aflutter with curiosity.

When I was finally escorted back to exam room six, I could hardly contain my enthusiasm. I decided to read a magazine (which, for me, is never actually possible in the anxious stupor I feel in a doctor’s office. I end up reading the small print on the Cialis ads to see if I can find the word “leakage.”). I quickly perused what I assumed would be a shitty selection of periodicals – Time, Road And Track, US News, and… WHAT?! THE JANUARY 2006 ISSUE OF GLAMOUR?! THAT’S THE ISSUE DOOCE IS IN! I picked it up and began perusing it feverishly, scanning the pages and hoping that Dr. Gardernburger didn’t do that familiar “knock-knock-open” thing that doctors do while I was reading Glamour because you just know that urologists talk.

(Dooce, if you’re reading this, I think you should know how huge it is that I was sitting in a urologist’s office, moments away from being felt-up and whacking-off, and I was more excited to see a picture of you than either of those experiences. If that’s not “making it”, I don’t know what is.)

Knock. Knock. Open.

“Hi, Mr. Evans,” Dr. Gardenburger says as he enters. “Reading anything good?”

“Nope,” I say, discarding Glamour behind the exam table. “Just the new issue of Car And Driver.”

We chat as Dr. Gardenburger snaps-on some rubber gloves. He asks me a well-rehearsed litany of questions about my vasectomy. Any pain? Any swelling? Why did you cry so much during the procedure? Et cetera.

“I know it’s silly,” he says, “but I HAVE to ask you these questions. You’d be surprised how many people say they had no pain and then come back a week later and sue me for malpractice and loss of consortium.”

“Consortium?” I ask.

“Yeah. It means they can’t get laid any more. And somehow that’s my fault, I guess.”

“Oh,” I say contemplatively. “Interesting.”

Predictably, the aforementioned juice-squeezing followed. He pinches and he tugs and I think he did a little spit-shine thing, but I wasn’t looking (and frankly, if he did, I don’t want to know about it).

“Looks good,” he says.

“So I’ve been told.”

He then slides his stool backward and opens a small cabinet. He produces a sealed plastic cup, a brown paper bag and a small piece of paper. He hands them to me and instructs me to take it home, beat-off into the cup and deliver it to one of the labs listed on the paper. As he speaks, I feel myself beginning to frown.

“You can call three or four days later and we should have your sperm count results by then,” he says.

“Does this mean I don’t get to rub one out here in the office?”

“What?”

“Well… see… it’s just that… I was expecting you to have some kind of room here where you had lots of porn and plastic cups,” I say.

“Nope,” he says. “Sorry. That would be an occupational hazard for our secretarial staff. I guess you could consider this homework. Heck, get your wife to help.”

Now I’m pissed.

“Doc, I don’t tell you how to run your marriage, so don’t you tell me how to run mine. There are certain things I don’t do in front of my wife, and spanking it into a sterile shot glass is one of them.”

“Well, whatever,” he says. “Either way, you can’t masturbate in this office.”

“That’s what you think,” I say.

He becomes concerned. Scared. “What are you saying?” he asks.

“Well, you know that issue of Car And Driver I was reading when you came in? It’s got a Hemi in it, if you know what I mean.”

Comments

Man, what is it with urologists and manhandling the man handle? When I went in for my pre-vasectomy plum juggle I thought I was going to pass out. Really, I didn't know my balls went back that far - an hour after my visit I started coughing and his watch came out.

I share your concern about the actual procedure of depositing the specimen into the cup. I have to do mine next month (I got three months from the operation to get everyone out of the pool - maybe because we live in a small town that can't handle that big city ejaculation frequency), and I'm not sure how to do it. I might have to practice a couple of times with a dixie cup.

My husband got me to deliver his tiny little speciman jar to the lab. Yes, I got to take the fluid for a drive into town, and carry it to the lab. Then I got to say "No, it's not mine. And no, I do NOT know the exact time of "collection".

Thank you for not going where I really, really thought you were going with the Dooce thing. That would've been so awkward.

I don't know what the world is coming to. Can't masturbate at the doctor's office? Hello, where are you supposed to do it?

Well, every time you see him (if you do) from now on you'll have him worried and on his toes.

That's something, right?

And at least he was honest about the whole "I'm only doing this shit so nobody can sue me" thing. I mean, we're all aware that the sue-happy culture is responsible fot many things: why can't people just be honest about it??

Anyway; good luck with the *sample*. Remember, just lean back, think of England (or, you know, Hot Wife or something. Either way) and make sure your hand (amongst other things) gets a thorough work out.

Peace.

That would be "FOR many things" not "FOT".

*Sigh.*

I need a coffee.

And I don't even drink the bloody stuff...

Ok picturing your face falling in disappointment when the doc breaks it to you that you can't whack it in his office made me burst out laughing. Sorry it didn't go as you'd hoped!

A muffled horn, ala Debbie Downer, would have been the ultimate conclusion to this story.

laugh out loud at my computer funny!

***wipes extra light french vanilla coffee off screen with elbow sleeve***

Now, that was quite funny!

dude, you really didnt tell the doc that??? an you really didnt whack off in the doc's office ..........ROTFLMFFAO......sorry to be laufin at it but you is one funny dud...........

newfieswoman

Oh, so THAT'S what a Hemi is!:)
thanks for the afternoon funny, DGM.

Yay for delurking!

Dude, you are hysterical!! Consider me hooked!

Hemi.

*guffaws*

Nowonder you're in the lead for Best of Blogs. You make my day!

dude, you're f-ed up. Thank God for that.

The fertility clinic where I corraled my tadpoles at least twenty times had some great issues of Barely Legal. I recommend them highly.

Hemi? he he he

LMAO