It was exactly SIX months ago that my husband bravely and voluntarily offered up his nut sack to a doctor he barely even knew to do a little procedure called The Vasectomy.
I’d like to think that he did it out of love for me, out of respect for my tired uterus and my thrice stitched vagina, but deep down I know he did it so that he could “Tap That Ass” as frequently as his little, er, extremely large heart desires, without threats of bodily harm and/or death. (Example: “FINE! But I swear, if you get me pregnant, I WILL KEEL YOU!”)
And what a better way to celebrate the six month anniversary of The Day He Got His Shit Snipped then to get a voice mail from the doctor’s office that said the following words:
Dear Mr.PigHunter, we got the results from your sample and they were negative. You don’t need to bring any more samples, you’ll all done.”
(Yes, it took him SIX months to take a flippin’ sample in. Someone was Proscratinatin’ with the ejaculatin’.)
I had mixed emotions when I heard that message. I felt a bit of sadness because, Wow…I can never make babies with this man ever again and also, WOW…I can never use the term The Weapon of Mass Fertilization&trade ever again.
But mostly? I was happy and excited because OH MY GOD! PIGHUNTER’S STERILE, Y’ALL! Let the spermless humping begin!