| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February
/ March 2006 Contest Results |
The
Consultation
By
Sean Ellis, New York
After ten years of
bearing the burden of birth control my wife decided that I should take
on the responsibility for preventing another bundle
of joy from entering our lives and activating the murder-suicide pact we
agreed to after our third child was born.
After serious
consideration and feigning illness for two weeks I made an appointment
with a local urologist for an initial consultation. I chose this
provider based on personal references and after learning that he
sterilized half my town. It helped that his office was close to the
police and
fire stations and very near a hospital. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I arrived to an
office packed with men, all at least thirty years my senior. I felt
empathy for these men and wondered what ailments awaited me in the
future. Then a nurse emerged from
behind the door and began handing out Viagra like she was running for
Mayor. The men
skipped out the door and the nurse asked if I needed a sample as well.
Emphatically, I declared I was there for quite another reason. I had
been deemed far too fertile in my house and something needed to be done.
I filled out the
necessary forms and the nurse led me to the examination room. She
instructed me to “remove my pants and climb up in the stirrups.” I
reminded her that my appointment was for a consultation not a
decapitation. She explained that in order to give me a clear
understanding of what would take place the doctor would demonstrate the
procedure. He would show me where the incision would be made and apply
the same amount of pressure that would be felt during the actual
procedure. I should have taken the Viagra and run.
I sat pantless
with my feet in the stirrups and began to understand my wife’s hesitancy
to go to the OB/GYN. This was no picnic. I scanned the room for an
emergency exit, but instead caught a glimpse of a large, empty container
marked “CLAMPS.”
There was never
a mention of clamping. Before I could think of a positive use for such a
gadget a man appeared between my stirrups. He was younger than I
expected and I silently wondered why he would choose this line of work
and if his mother knew what he was doing. My nerves were getting the
better of me and I got a small dose of the chills. Between teeth
chatters I mustered up the courage to ask, “So is this going to hurt
much?” He came in a little closer and said “I don’t know I’m the DHL
man,” surely delivering the much needed clamps.
When I regained
consciousness the actual doctor was there. He apologized for the
incident but assured me that Vito the DHL man has been delivering there
so long he could probably perform the procedure better than him.
The doctor then
explained the vasectomy, the recovery and the after treatment. He
informed me that I would need to use my new and improved self thirty
times before it was proclaimed sterile. I mentioned that I have three
children at home and thirty times could take four years. He said nothing
and handed me a permission slip that needed to be signed by my wife. I
thanked him for a lovely time and left.
I got home and
left the permission slip on the counter. The next day I noticed that
Laura had signed it. While there was no column marked “comments,” she
added one anyway indicating that she supports the idea: “Neuter the bastard.”
That was one
year ago this week. To date, I have not been back to the doctor --
although I did receive flowers from Vito at Christmas.
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