So how many times in the last couple of weeks have you said to yourself, "I sure wish Bill would tell us about the time he had his vasectomy"? Well your wish has been granted. After many weeks of giggling to myself as I brainstormed in the shower, I believe I've come up with enough pithy anecdotes to share this riveting experience with the world. Of giggling while brainstorming in the shower, Judy had this to say; "Whatever you're doing in there, make sure you don't use all the conditioner."

What can one say of a vasectomy? To understand any word, one must first break it down. First syllable: va, from the Spanish verb "to go". Second syllable: sect, as in dissect, or to cut. Third and forth syllables o-my: as in "you want me to go in and get my WHAT cut? Oh my!"

In reality, the decision to get the big snip was a joint effort betwixt me and the lovely missus. For all the years we'd been together, I was content to let Judy wage the war on the contraceptive front while I remained an oblivious bystander. In the war on fertility, I was like the citizen watching the action on CNN. The closer we climbed to the pinnacle of our forth decade, though, the more dangerous it got for Judy to remain barren via chemical enhancement. Thus, I bravely decided to take one for the team. No sex or a vasectomy? Start cutting, doc.

The first course of action was the pre-neuter consultation. Dr Englert, I think his name was. This was a meet and greet with the doc. He explained the procedure: "First we'll cut a very small hole in the scrotum and pull out a loop of the vas. Here; feel right here, Mr. Boucher. Do you feel that? Kind of feels like linguine, doesn't it? That's what we'll be pulling out and cutting."

"The hell, you say." Quickly, plans of a meal that evening at The Olive Garden faded. Thankfully, having the doc guide me through "handling" myself in front of my wife will be the closest I ever come to a threesome in this or any other lifetime. A quick aside about closing in on and turning forty: the typical male, upon reaching this milestone, will drop trou in front of almost as many men in a year as George Micheal. On the bright side, almost all of them will probably be doctors.

He continued. "We'll pull the vas from both sides (apparently when you've been in the plumbing business as long as the doc, it saves a lot of time to drop the word deferens), cut and cauterize them, do a quick suture, and it's off to home you go. You'll ice it for two to three days, and then you can go back to work. You will give two follow-up samples to make sure there are no swimmers in the pool."

Now, I must mention that Judy was present for both the consultation and the vasectomy. I must be brave in front of my woman. "So I'll get a stick or something to bite on? A shot of whiskey?" Actually, Mr. Boucher, I'll write you a prescription for some valium and we'll use a local at your out-patient procedure." Valium and a four day weekend! Sweet. This deal's looking up. One thing I must say; when your have any procedure between your waist and the tops of your thighs, the drugs are always top flight, as well they should be. The valium was to make me relax. You know; all over. What can I say? My consultation was in January. The boys were riding high that day.

The big day came. Looped on valium, I tried to persuade Judy that this event should be filmed on our camcorder. Clearer heads prevailed and it was off to the clinic. For my peace of mind, a surgical screen was erected between me and the lesser Mr. Boucher. This did not prevent me, however, from trying to watch via reflection from the shiny metal light fixture housing. I am assuming, as with side mirrors on cars, objects reflected in these housings are larger than they appear.

You know, there are things you never think about until times like this. "Say doc. How do you keep from cutting stuff... you know... shouldn't be cut?" Doc assures me, "Not to worry Mr. Boucher, a rubber band and a surgical clamp clipped to your shirt will keep everything as it should be." Let's see. An analogy without being too gross. I've got it. Ladies imagine trying to put on mascara while continually having to brush your bangs from your face. Now imagine replacing the brush with a scalpel. "Do what ever you've got to do, doc. Just remember to take off the rubber band when you're done. And doc; lot's of drugs. The closest I want to come to feeling this is reading about it in Braille."

Now surgically bereft of my virility, I place an ice pack down the front of my doctor recommended sweatpants, and Judy and I start the long slow walk out of the clinic. As this is also a walk-in clinic branch of the Thornton Medical Center, I decide to have fun with the folks in the waiting room. Hunched over, holding the ice pack over my groin but concealed by my sweatpants, I look at the filled room and say, "For the love of God, whatever you do, pay your bill on time."

The final chapter of the story includes the follow-up visits to see if there is any seed left worth sowing. First, the fantasy: a luxuriously appointed room of red velvet with an over-stuffed, heart-shaped sofa, a lot of inspirational material and a mellow jazz instrumental of "The Girl From Ipanema" softly filling the dark candlelit room. The reality: a three ounce plastic cup, a hospital bathroom with a lock I'm not at all sure about, and my healthy imagination. Picture if you will, my pants at my ankles, leaning against the door, shaking hands with Mr. Happy, and trying to think hot thoughts.

Fortunately, I have a very gifted imagination. Oh, and if they should happen to lose your second sample and need to get a third, I find the best revenge is to take a mayo package from a fast food joint and put a little on the outside of the sample container.