I’ve downloaded the movie Pitch Perfect illegally which is only ever going to be a problem if I admit to the heinous act and commit it to writing and so I promise myself I won’t do that even if something really bloggable happens while RM and I are watching it.
“Oh my god,’ I say, after watching another cheesey sing-off between the Bellas and the Treble Makers. ‘Teenage girls all over the world will be swooning in their seats and rubbing their legs together like crickets at this scene.’
‘Don’t tell me all the Uni girls singing together a capella isn’t getting you a little excited as well…’ RM says.
I look straight in to her eyeballs and say. ‘There has been absolutely no blood flow to my erogenous zones since the movie started. I’m really worried. If this story doesn’t pick up soon my penis may go gangrenous.’
RM laughs and says, ‘Well at least that’ll save you from a visit to Dr Snip.’
Inside something snaps. For the previous several minutes I have managed to avoid thinking about the inevitable snip by focussing on the deplorable acting of Rebel Wilson and some horrifically clichéd lines like this pearler delivered by Skyler Asten to Anna Kendrick: You push away anyone who could possibly care about you.
On the outside it may have looked like I was actually watching the movie but on the inside I was running through a list of the most clichéd lines in cinematic history. It was fun and I had already started working on a ‘Top 10’ with Don’t you die on me! and Is that all you got! when RM – who I think is secretly enjoying my mental torment – mentioned the good Dr’s name, and all the fear and uncertainty opened me up again, shotgun-style.
There is no way to avoid the truth – despite the dozens of well-wishers who have emailed and Facebooked and Tweeted recently to ensure me that a vasectomy is a very simple procedure that goes really quick and is not really painful at all – I am shit scared. Bottom line? I just can’t believe them. I feel like I’m Jim Carey in ‘The Truman Show’ and everyone is playing their part and saying the same thing to keep me smiling and happy but the realty is that on the 18th of this month I’ll be suffering through an 8 hour complicated operation that will leave me in excruciating pain and take months to recover from…
It’s as I’m careering back into all that horror that I am overwhelmed with thoughts about other less invasive but equally worrying aspects of the whole procedure.
‘I’m trying to watch the movie,’ she says.
‘Well, she was saying her husband thought the worst part of having a vasectomy was dropping his pants so that the doctor could look at his balls, and feel them and everything, before the operation.’
RM is humming along with the Bellas as they sing an a capella version of something or other and seems oblivious to my desperate need to talk.
‘Well, I was watching an episode of ‘Embarrassing Bodies’ the other night while I was eating my Tacos,’ I continue. ‘And there was this guy patient talking to the doctor about some problem he was having with his anus. And so the doctor gets him to drop his pants and get up on the bed and then sits behind him in a way that ensures his head is level with the guy’s arse. Then he opens up his cheeks, looks around a little and comments on the fact that it looks a little dirty in there and that he may need to be coached on proper wiping techniques. Then he says something doctor-ish like, ‘You might feel a little prick’ and shoves his very large finger straight into the guy with gay abandon. And all I could think of while all this was going on – apart from the fact that my Taco was far less satisfying than I expected it to be – was how the hell does someone end up in a doctor’s office for an examination with a dirty anything…”
‘Why are you telling me this?’ RM says. ‘I thought we were watching a romantic comedy together?’
‘Because,’ I say. ‘I will spend about two hours in the shower scrubbing myself half to death before I go to Dr Snip next Tuesday. I’ll be so fricken clean he’ll be able to shave his face while using the glans of my penis as a mirror.’
‘Oh,’ she says.
I look at my iPhone and note that the date is the twelfth of the twelfth of the twelfth – only six days until the death of my vans deferens. And then another way to avoid the snip occurs to me.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘Wasn’t the world meant to end today?’
‘Yep,’ RM says. ‘But it didn’t.’
‘Don’t call it too soon,’ I say, as a new glimmer of hope rises. ‘There’s still a few hours left.’