Remember the post I wrote about going to the store to buy condoms and being totally lost and confused in the condom aisle and as a result of the experience, I vowed to have my husband neutered?
Well, we’ve done it. My stud is now a gelding and in 10-14 ejaculations we will soon be able to do the Sexy Time without fear of any slip ups winding up with names and college savings plans.
Free at last! Free at last! We are all done having babies!
(Sniffle. My child bearing years are over. I’m having some mixed feelings about it actually, but then when both kids are screaming and I just wish the Goblin King would come and take them away, I want to make out with my husband’s urologist.)
We were going to have a big party for him–sort of a bon voyage type of dealy-o to give his lil’ swimmers a royal send off, but we thought of it too late and well? Eh. I’m kind of a shitty wife.
But how funny would it be if I wasn’t a shitty wife?
It would be awesome!
He Is A Hoarder
And he really would have appreciated a party because he’s a very sentimental guy. He saves ticket stubs from movies and concerts and train rides. He saves receipts from dinners he wants to remember, and he will never, ever, throw away a pair of old worn out boxers or socks. He has a pair of socks that have so many holes in them, and are so smelly that they’re virtually indistinguishable from a hunk of swiss cheese. When I try to throw them out, he’s all “What? I wore these to my senior prom! THEY’RE SPECIAL TO ME, OKAY?” And I’m all *eye roll.* Whenever we have this problem, I just wait until he goes to work and I throw the thing away. I have to put it at the very bottom of the trash can underneath the kitty litter AND the poopy diapers because he fishes through the trash just to make sure I’m not throwing out any “good stuff.”
Celebrate With A Public Ejaculation
If he’s like this with a pair of old socks or whatever, you can imagine how sad he is that his boys will never again see the light of day or the darkness of the vajeeen. Knowing him, and I know this because he actually described it in great detail at Thanksgiving (you should have seen his mother’s face. Fucking. Priceless.), there would have to be a ceremony that ends in some sort of grandiose fashion– a public ejaculation, perhaps, where he stands up on the table, our friends and neighbors gathered below, and tosses one last virile cum shot on the face of the world (or the people in our dining room). That would be just his style.
He’s into facials. Isn’t every man?
I just got a mental image of our neighbor, Earl, with my husband’s spunk on his face. I’ve just traumatized myself. Seriously, I have PTSD now.
Now you have PTSD because you just pictured Earl too and it freaked you out, didn’t it?
It’s okay, we’ll go for electroshock together. I’ll hold your hand. It’ll be a two for one.
Let’s see…what else?
Oh, the menu!
A Steak And A Blowjob
We’d have to serve frozen peas to eat, of course, and it would be cute because everyone knows frozen peas fit the contour of the scrotum (our friend’s son calls it “crotum,” how cute is that?). Did you know they actually make ice packs that have little plastic “peas” in them? That’s what I got him for a vasectomy present. Maybe I’m not that shitty of a wife after all. He’d probably disagree though. I think what he wanted for a present was a steak and a blow job–a swallowing one. I can tell just by the way he looked at me and said “I want a steak and a blow job for a vasectomy present.”
I may be a shitty wife, but I’m not a stupid one, Toy with Mes.
Let’s see…what else could we have to eat? We could have little licorice vas deferens (deferenses, deferensi, deferenseses?)…oh my god and bourbon balls! Yummy! I suppose it wouldn’t be a right and proper vasectomy party without Rocky Mountain Oysters! And I don’t care what the frosting haters of the world say, there must be a cake decorated with little frosting scrotums and sperms because it’s not a party if there’s no dick cake.
Do you think the bakery lady at the Stop & Shop would look at me funny if I asked her to put all that on a cake? Do you think she knows how to spell “congratulations” or “vasectomy?”
Not everyone is smart like we are.
What about some party games? We could play Operation and see if we can get the little piece of spaghetti (the doctor showed him his vas deferens after he removed it. He says it looks like spaghetti. HE ASKED IF HE COULD KEEP IT I TOLD YOU HE WAS WEIRD!) in the “bread basket” instead of the plastic toast that comes with the game. You know, for realism.
LIFE would be pretty awesome, we’d have to modify it a little bit to fit the occasion though,–“A surprise vasectomy! You are no longer procreating! Increase income by $250,000!” Or, “Too bad. Vasectomy didn’t take. You’re expecting twins! Go stab yourself in the balls.”
The winner wins a shot glass full of the boys. The loser has to drink it.
EW! I just traumatized myself again!
I think I’m finished here.
Do you guys have any other suggestions for a vasectomy party, just in case some non-shitty wife is planning one for her dear husband’s big day and she stumbles across this post?