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In today’s #RandyTales, our hero tugs on his nuts… literally… not in the Letterkenny way…

The world is rapidly descending into madness.  All definitions of “normal” have fallen by the side of the road.  The basic right of people are being eroded away – except old white guys like myself.  It is important to hold on to those things we can.  We must not let the current state of affairs impede what may come.

So talking about my penis seems like a perfectly rational thing at the moment.  Doesn’t it?  

My dick and I have been through everything together.  He has been by my side (or front and center) through all the horrible and wonderful things I have done to him and myself.  He has never lied to me (I lie to him a few times – no eyes to see where he was going).  He may not have the staminia he once had, he still gets the job done.  Now time to mutilate him!

I had decided in my 20s that I didn’t want kids and the fear of getting someone pregnant outweighed my fear of catching a disease.  I had been a horny teenager during the late 80s/early 90s with the specter of HIV/AIDS and survived with only a couple of Q-Tip tests. 

I told myself I was not, nor would I ever be, ready to have children.  I did not want to pass on the plethora of bullshit that is in my genetic stew.  (Cue ironic foreshadowing music)  So in my mid 20s, I went to the doctor and said “I want a vasectomy.”  The doctor looked at me and said “no”.  Huh?  I don’t want to have kids and I would really like to not take that risk every time I have unprotected sex.  “You can’t get a vasectomy until you are in your 30s,” was the response I got.  BUT I DON’T WANT KIDS!

I resigned and would wait another few years… and in those few years there were three pregnancies resulting in two beautiful babies that I adore with all my heart (and one abortion that is a tale for another time).  As the second marriage came to an end, the subject of the vasectomy came up again.  I had my kids – I was in my 40s.  It was time.  

And then came cancer.  FUUUUUCK!

Some of you have heard the story that I asked my surgeon if he could do a vasectomy at the same time he was removing the tumor and re-plumbing my large intestines.  He declined.  So I asked my oncologist about getting a vasectomy.  I was newly single (that ironic foreshadowing music is getting repetitive) and being sterile might increase my odds of filling the hole in… uh… holes just need to be filled. My oncologist said that I would be hard pressed to find a urologist to do it, and did I really want to take a chance on getting an infection in that area and not have an immune system to deal with it?

FUUUUUCK!  Fine… I’ll wait some more… through chemo and until my immune system got un-fucked. And so, when I could with my new gubment insurance, scheduled a consult with a urologist.

And then the fucking plague hit.  I am getting the sneaking suspicion the Universe does not like my penis nearly as much as my art director tells me she does.  I called my doctor to reschedule the whole thing, but instead was offered a consult over the phone.

I talked with the urologist and asked about the procedure in these uncertain times.  He was very reassuring saying so long as I went home and and rested for a few days, there was no chance of infection.  He said the chance of exposure to this nasty little thing was minimal, adding his staff was taking all precautions and not working in any environment that would expose them.  Plus he said they wouldn’t be able to get me in for a month… so I scheduled my snip-snip.

Now – I do understand that it is elective surgery.  I am making an informed decission based on a doctor’s professional opinion, not on anything read on Facebook.  After going through cancer, I trust people with letters after their name more than those who graduated from the University of Googles Shit Too Much.  

So why take any kind of risk?  Because, dear reader, life is risk.  Every time I leave my house I take a risk.  Currently it is catching a bug that could affect my family – including my zebra and my future father-in-law.  But how is that different than any other time you walk out the door?  Maybe not a virus – maybe a car accident, or a misfired gun, or some other random act that can’t be predicted?

So doing something that I would be doing “normally” is working towards that end of the tunnel.  If things don’t get better, or there is another medical issue, I won’t do it.  I have to take a few days off anyway – so why not while everything is shut down?  And I am finally fulfilling a promise I made to myself a long time ago – when I had no idea how sacred and special “normal” would be. 

And besides – I have beautiful women that will fit in my nurse costume… and I am going to need a helping hand or two…