I love my penis. We've been through a lot together. We’ve had our ups and downs, and being that his eyesight isn’t as good as mine, we’ve had quite a few disagreements as to exactly where he should venture. I regret that he’s managed to slip me a beer or two and win some of those arguments.
Anyway, my wife and I seem to be blessed with a high degree of fertility. After my second daughter, it has come to my attention that it would be best if my penis wasn’t quite the sharpshooter he’s been all these years. My first daughter took less than 3 months of trying, the 2nd barely a month. So I called Dr. Snipdick today expecting a long series of ‘consultations’ and whatnot before he does the deed. Instead I was told I could come in tomorrow if I was ready. I admit that caught me a little off guard.
See, while my wife and I have decided we’re not entirely sure we’re done with kids*, we have decided that the next one would be an adoption. We both know our reproductive systems are in tip top shape, but realize there’s other kids out there who need parents and our love isn’t confined to our own genetic imprints. Besides, I’d plan on adopting some black, Chinese kid and telling him it’s his sisters who are adopted and therefore look different. So, that’s not really the issue.
The issue is discussing this with the 100% all-beef thermometer . How do I break it to him that he will all of a sudden be as effective in creating useful baby batter as the UN is in declaring and stopping genocide? That his position of attention will be remain proud and strong but his salute a little weak? It’s heartbreaking to think the spackle-howitzer will only be capable of firing blanks from now on.
Sigh.
Looking on the bright side, I’ll probably be the only guy in Tampa with ‘Just Neutered’ written on the back of his Jeep in shoe polish.
*The wife has had such massively easy pregnancies she’s thinking about being a surrogate mother. I cannot explain the joy I would take in telling people that my wife is pregnant and the look on their faces when I say, completely dead-pan that it ain’t mine.