Willis McGahee joined his teammates yesterday at Baltimore’s training complex after doctors told him he would make a full recovery from a fierce helmet-to-helmet hit in the AFC championship game that had him carted off the field.
“I’m all right. Everything is okay,” the running back told reporters as the Ravens, 23-14 losers to Pittsburgh, cleared out their lockers. “The MRI and the CAT scan checked out good. I was scared, but I didn’t know how serious it was. It was pretty intense.”
The play occurred in the fourth quarter of Pittsburgh’s victory. McGahee had just caught a pass and taken two steps before being met by safety Ryan Clark, who drove his helmet into McGahee’s facemask. McGahee’s head snapped back and he lost the ball as he dropped to the ground.
“I didn’t even see him coming,” McGahee said.
I bet that is a hit he will remember for the rest of his life, if his memory sticks.
I was thinking about something today. Sex is great and wonderful, but so is laughter. I’m not talking about little giggles either. I’m talking about deep belly laughter. Laughing uncontrollably. Laughing so hard that tears come out of your eyes. Laughing so hard, that you simply cannot stop.
The feeling after one of those laughs is very similar to the feeling that I have after I orgasm.
As most of you dear readers know, I recently underwent a small medical procedure. I had a vasectomy. Since that fateful day, I have been inundated with emails and questions over the past month about what it feels like, how long is the recovery time, and ultimately, was it worth it. Instead of explaining this to each and everyone time and time again, I decided to just write it here, and direct everyone to this small quip.
During the initial consult I was told that I would receive a prescription for 3 Valium. Apparently there have been a few incidents of male patients clutching their crotch and silently weeping while in the waiting room, and that’s just bad for business. They would rather just give you a few barbituates and hope you don’t trip and fall up the steps on your way towards the door.
I’m not the smallest person in the world, but after all the good things I had heard about Valium, I figured one pill would do me in. I could save the other two for a later date when things weren’t as hectic and I could just mellow out for a while.
Tip #1. Take all the pills one hour prior to your appointment. I was sweating like a queer at a wiener roast while I waited for them to call my name.
A nurse led me into a small room and told me to get undressed, lay on the table and cover myself up with a blue paper “blanket” for privacy.
I figured that there wasn’t much privacy to be had considering I was getting ready to be exposed to the world.
I threw the blanket on a chair with my clothes and reclined in all of my naked glory. They should make those blankets, heated blankets, or at least heat the tables. Those things are cold!
I wasn’t expecting the door to open and shut approximately 523 times while I lay there nude and spread eagle. I don’t know what all those people were looking for when they opened the door and walked in, but I bet they sure as hell weren’t expecting to see my penis staring back at them.
The nurse finally came back into the room and held my unit out of the way whilst the good doctor commenced to render me infertile.
He said, “This is going to sting.”
Sting is what a paper cut feels like. Sting is what bees do. Sting is what you feel when you get shampoo in your eye. Sting is not what a needle boring into your nutsack feels like. There should be another word for that. A scarier word.Â A word like “superfuckhurtinowie.”
After the initial cut and the “sting”, my nuts decided that they wanted nothing to do with what was happening. They retreated as far back in their confinement as they could and tried to hide.
Allow me to take a moment to send a special shout out to the women who are reading this. Before you start to fill up my inbox and comment section with all of those “That’s nothing compared to what a woman goes through during birth / hysterectomy / gang-bang” email, let me just tell you to please shut your pie-holes. Women are tougher than men and we all know it. I’m sure if you ladies had testicles, you’d pound them with bricks and wouldn’t bat an eye. I don’t want to hear about it.
Tip #2. Remember those Valium!
Finally, after it had what I’m sure was a good laugh, the valium had mercy and released its sweet nectar into my bloodstream. It was like being in the beginning of a good drunk. A perfect drunk that seemed to peak right at the perfect point. I was opening up and letting the nurse and doctor know what a brilliant conversationalist I was. I was cracking jokes left and right.
I was a riot.
Sometime during my valium induced comedy routine, I remember the doctor pulling out what appeared to the worlds largest crochet needle.
When he hooked my left nuts delicate tether, and tugged it out the “stinging” hole, nothing was funny anymore. It was a baaaaaaaaaad feeling – sort of a cross between getting kicked in the nuts and pulling a few feet of intestines out of your asshole.
My vas-deferens was cut, both ends were tied in knots, and the ends were burnt. (Even afterÂ all of that, there is still a possibility that the vas can re-attach itself and allow sperm to once again make the trip…)
The doctor repeated this process with my right nut, which was, trembling in fear.
When the whole thing was over, the doc crammed what was left back into my wrinkled sack and stitched it up.
Tip #3. The pain comes later. Prepare for it.
For what it’s worth, getting stitches in my sack wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I was pretty numb there. The worst part comes a couple of days later, when you get your stitches caught in your underwear just prior to taking a pee in a public restroom, and you nearly bite your tongue off trying not to squeal while the guy at the urinal next to you pretends like he doesn’t notice you bouncing around and chewing on your tongue.
There are a few post vasectomy activities that one should definitely steer clear of, including: walking, running, driving a stick, sitting in any position that does not allow you to keep your legs spread like a 50 year old hooker during Sturgis, and,Â getting punched in the junk by your two year old daughter.
I carried around the got-whacked-in-the-cajones-half-an-hour-ago feeling for about a month, but it’s pretty much over now.
The only thing left to do is go back to the doctor, whack off into a cup, and await the results of a sperm count. On two different occasions.