Going Out of Business

Offer good while supplies last.

Okay, ladies.

If anyone out there is interested in owning their very own Mini Brian, this may be your last chance.  Consider it a Clearance Sale (one that may or may not be approved by the Mrs. - I can see where she might get upset) - I'm getting rid of my inventory and after that won't be restocking my stores, so to speak.

I'm officially going out of business November 21st.

I'm getting snipped.

Yes, it's truly an end of an era - one that started in puberty and netted me two blonde, high-maintenance (and expensive) tax-deductions.  And two, dear readers, is where I draw the line.   I don't want any more Goddamn kids.  Don't get me wrong, here - I love my kids and everything (no need to call the CPS), but I really don't want to go through the whole process of raising a baby again.

They're cute to hold for a few minutes, but after that you're constantly washing out breast milk stench from over-priced bottles (that fill entire dishwashing loads, preventing you from actually doing any dishes), changing diapers, dealing with fevers and rashes, bleaching toys ('cause everything goes in the mouth), and - my personal favorite - never sleeping.

Thanks, but no thanks.  Went through it twice, not again.

No, Kris and I have spoken about this continuously over the course of the last two years or so, and we decided that while my current insurance is awesome with this, we might as well take care of it.  I guess I can't be surprised that the overall price tag for this surgery is insanely low - $35 - after all, by destroying my ability to make more human beings, I'm saving them a lot of headaches and dollar signs down the road.  It makes good business since to cut me a ridiculously huge discount.

The specialist's office is in Kissimmee, surrounded by jungle.

I know general practitioners are fully capable of performing vasectomies, but I wanted to go to a specialist.  Seriously - if you were in the middle of a storm at sea, who would you rather have at the helm - a casual yachter who owns a boat and has previous experience taking his boat out in bad weather, or a crusty, old sea rover who's actually bored steering his vessel through thirty-foot tall waves?

Give me Ol' Salty any day of the week.

I had an appointment this afternoon with the guy that's going to be slicing up my balls - really nice guy who's been doing it for over 30 years and hasn't had a serious issue in all the years he's been doing it.  I had to take a half-day, which I wasn't fond of doing so early in the school year, but they require anyone going in for the surgery to have a consultation with the specialist first.

My future throne (I didn't get to break in the stirrups today.)

And to further inconvenience all those wishing to eliminate their ability to procreate the species, they require the spouse to accompany the would-be patient.  So Kris had to take a half-day too.

Anyway, the consultation wasn't much more than a "are you both sure you really want to do this?" speech, followed by a walk-through of the procedure (which I'll tell you about later - maybe after my balls have gone under the knife.)  He did ask that I drop my pants so he could feel around down there.

No matter how many times a doctor's done the ol' grope-and-feel in the past, that shit never fails to creep me out.

Let's do this.

So there you have it.  In less than two months - kicking off my Thanksgiving vacation, in fact - I'll be sterile.  Am I nervous about it?  Nope.  Second thoughts or lingering fancies of maybe someday raising more offspring?  Hell nope.

I'm looking forward to this, if only 'cause I've now got a prescription for Vicodin and orders to remain on Bed Rest for three days.

Wii U, Netflix, beer, and pajamas, anyone?

- Brian