Having covered the sordid details yesterday, I thought it might be entertaining to recount just how it was that I managed to come to the decision to go under the knife and entrust my testicles to a stranger. For years I knew that a vasectomy was what I wanted to do, but I hesitated. It’s one thing to know in your head, it’s another to actually do it, to make a decision, knowing that there’s no going back. It’s all so very final, this vasectomy thing. It can be reversed, but reversing it is expensive and complicated, or so I read. And so, I vascilated, putting it off, until one night when the answer came to me, in a dream.
When going under the knife for a vasectomy, it is my own personal preference that a surgeon stay on point and only engage in the most generic forms of small talk. But that’s just me. The procedure itself is short, simple, and mostly painless. Even so, the target of the surgery is the testicles. Not around the testicles, not in the general vicinity of the testicles. No, they’re going after your balls, the holy of holies, as it were, the most private of privates.
By now you have probably heard about the complete incompetence of the judges that Trump is nominating. Colbert has a great bit of satire on the situation:
My affection for the word “dude” has increased with age. I had thought that my love of the word was simply related to my western migration, but I’ve been kicking around the West Coast for about a decade now, and the word “dude” continues to abide, increasingly infiltrating my vocabulary. When I pause to think about it, the range of the word “dude” is truly staggering, particularly given that it tends to be such a chill, low-key word. One curious form that “dude” takes is as sort of a pause, a preparation for what’s next. As in “Dude, you’re gonna want to tune in to what’s coming next, cause it’s kind of a Big Deal.” And one might respond, in turn, with an affirmative “dude,” a sort of call and response that signals “I’m with you, dude, please proceed.”
Man of steel?
There were more farts during group meditations than I can remember from any prior retreat, and from time to time they seemed to form some sort of chain reaction: one person farting, followed by another, then another. A sort of flatulent call-and-response, if you will. Then, on the seventh day, he farted.