the alfmeister

a figment of reality's imagination

Ball Breaker…warning – graphic wording and pics


Why vasectomies are required

When I relive the story I am about to tell you a chill goes up my spine and there is a definite tightening of my scrotum…a couple of years ago, soon after the birth of our second child it was deemed enough was enough and the thought of having a son moulded in my person seemed too big a risk to impart on humanity. The choices were abstinence (yeah right, like it would have worked for the All Blacks!) or get the (circle choice) cut – snip – hack – blade – fixed – emasculated – chop. While still in Auckland I had been quoted by the VAS Man (yep, cool and catchy name) somewhere in the region of a thousand which seemed a bit steep seeing as it had cost me nothing to have almost have had the same operation done to me some 25 years before….hazy fade-out to memory…

I was in the first or second form at school, and we were having a lunchtime ‘social’ (disco for the uninformed) and dressed splendidly in my hand-me-downs uniform from my older brother, school socks down, jersey tied about my waist I made my way to the school hall to get my groove on. As I got to the venue where Madonna’s “Like A Virgin” blared out on the school’s 10W and 50-year-old turntable I ran into a classmate of the female persuasion, Sarah and we got chatting. Now how it all transpired I don’t recollect as years of substance abuse has dulled the grey matter but I do recall the mentioning of “horse” in reference to her…with a kick of the force of Chuck Norris moving at near to the speed of light she connected with the soft, downy region of my pre-pubescent teens with startling accuracy and force that would have made Pele proud. Needless to say I was felled like a sack of shit, eyes rolled back into my head, and something guttural emanated forth from my suddenly dry throat…something akin to “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck”.

So imagine my surprise when I actually sired a child eons later.


Yep, that's my proceedure.

Anyway, back to the story at hand. I visited my (new) local GP to get ‘permission’ to proceed with the vasectomy to which he pointed out he could actually do himself…and the hook? For $300! Well I couldn’t turn that up so three weeks later I found myself lying down on a bed in his surgery with his hand cradling my scrots with a rather large needle in hand which he proceeded to use to dull my puppies. As he moved to snipping the second one (the first seemed to go no worries) I pointed out to him that I could actually ‘feel’ the scalpel making the cut. What uttered forth from him will stick with me the rest of my life; “That’s not right…” NO SHIT SHERLOCK!!!!

So with a second injection, and the job complete he sent me home on my merry way with instructions which included, but was by no means limited to; ice packs (frozen veg as a good alternative, rest, feet up, no scratching, prodding, masturbating, or excessive use of the genitalia area…as if I would!

But it started to turn pear-shaped some hours later, about the time he advised it would be OK. The pain and swelling was definitely not going away, and despite being subjected to more ice than a nuclear winter, my balls still throbbed with the intensity of that moment 20 years before. Sleep, well you can fucking well kiss that good-bye! But sometime the following day (as I shovelled Katie’s new garden into place) the pain subsided and I could move around freely without looking like John Wayne moseying into a saloon.

PiS…the act in itself was carried out at the start of December, sort of stocking filler if you will, and I was given the all-clear a few weeks later, as in, no fish biting!

But…and there is always a but (and not that which exists about 2″ away from my testicles) I went to bed some five or six weeks later and mentioned to Katie that something didn’t feel right ‘down there’ and pleaded for her to cop a feel. As if she hadn’t heard that line many times before, but there it was, a small lump making three testes where for the existence of mankind have only been two.

And at 11pm that night it was all on. I was dressing in whatever I could comfortably get into, tears streaming down my cheeks, and what looked, and felt like, a shot put hanging between my thighs…the return of John Wayne’s swagger, and this time he is pissed off!

I warned ya!

I drove myself to the only thing close to resembling an A&E and even the girls at the counter knew this was serious and jumped me up the queue ahead of all manner of ailments and injuries, and the young doctor who tended to me (I think he had only just completed his “Doctors and Nurses” module at intermediate school)turned white and almost fainted as he looked at the limb growing from my crotch…and his ‘prodding and feeling’ around certainly did nothing to relieve my pain nor my humility!

After half an hour of tests and more molestation (and a couple of others brought in to “check this out”) I was given some codeine and morphine to take to relieve the pain and some anti-inflams for the swelling which was now taking on basketball proportions. Seemed smart, dope me up before sending me home in the car, hell, what did I care, a crash would have been less painful.

The following day I popped round to watch my cricket team play in a regional T20 competition of which I had to pull out however they were short one in the first game and asked if I was up to playing. So, no box on, still walking like Fusilli Jerry (who knows what I’m talking about here?) I strutted out to bat and when word got around the fielding team of my predicament even they showed massive signs of discomfort! I didn’t last long, but hey, I didn’t intend to either. Beers helped for the rest of the day, and the more I drank the more graphic my tale became to my team mates – to the point that one player, due to be cut the following week called and cancelled.

So my tip to you guys, tell the missus to get fucked! No sex is a better alternative. Or maybe don’t be a tight arse like me and pay for proper procedures?

There’s a moral in here somewhere…?


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