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Monday, April 04, 2005


And for those of you still wondering about the status of my cock, well its alive and well.

I dropped off an ejaculation sample at the urology clinic today and got a call back later that I officially have no swimmers... my sperm has been rendered unless.

Now for those of you paying any attention, you realize that I had my vasectomy procedure way back in January.

It's true, it has taken me that long to get up the nerve to cum into a sample specimen cup.
I mean I don't have a problem impregnating the sewer/septic systems of the world but there's something about having to put it in a cup and take it somewhere that kept me from doing it.

My interaction went something like this:

"Honey, what do you say we knock out a sample for the doctor today?"
"Um, well okay," she says.
"What do you have in mind?"

I unbuckle my pants and dropped my drawers to reveal a hard cock.
"I'm thinking it'd be great if you blew me"

"It better not take long," she says.
"Does it ever?" I say.

Then I call the urologist and ask if the doctor's in (this is what I've been instructed to do knowing full well my doctor isn't going to test my semen for sperm).

The doctor's in alright.

"Can I drop off a sperm sample?" I say.
The old lady receptionist does her best Mrs. Doubtfire impersonation: "Ohh well um, hee ho, why I'm yes."

Five minutes later I'm at the doctor's office with my sample in a brown lunch bag as to not scare anybody walking in with a specimen cup loaded up with cum. Mrs. Doubtfire asks me a few questions.

"Is this from this morning?"
I turn around and look at the clock.
"Um, about ten minutes ago," I say.
"Uh, ooh, ahem, Okay and your date of birth is?" asks Mrs. Doubtfire and I could swear she was blushing.
"Two sixteen sixty eight,"I say.
"And when was your procedure?" she asks.
The phone rings.
"Excuse me," she says as she picks up the phone.
"Durham Urology. How can I help you?"

I can't help but wonder what the person who handles these specimens thinks:
"Um, that's all he could muster up? Poor fellow" or "God damn that guy delivered a monster load." And then I have this weird, creepy sexual deviant thought that the lady who works in the lab is one of those buttakke-types who likes to drink cum. Of course! That's why she works in the lab testing men's ejacualte for traces of sperm.

I'm only momentarily freaked out by this.
And it's more so that I thought about it then it actually happening.

Christ My Spelling Is Bad

I'm so glad my mother doesn't read this blog.

Lord onlyknows how much she'd be on my ass seeing all those mispelled words in the last few posts. I mean given the fucking fit she threw about the way I endorsed my checks and all.

The next vodka tonic is for you mom.


They're Playing Basketball


That's right folks. There's a basketball game on tonight.

And if you live in my neck of the woods, this means serious business.
Bars are apacked, streets are closed, blue spray paint has been unavailbale for sale for a couple of days and hotels are packed to the brim with the faithful.

ACC basketball in the Southeast is like a religion; like fucking Pentecostal snakehandlers, worked up into a fevered pitched for their team.

Once I went to the grocery store in mid-February on a Saturday, late afternoon, and it ws like a ghost town. "It sure is slow in here for a Saturday afternoon," I said to the cashier.

"Game's on," she said.

Tree House Boot Camp

Oh my.

The wifey took off last week for spring break, whihc just also happened to correspond with my son Spencer's 5th birthday.

And yeah, stupid us we made some promises: to take him to the beach and to build him a tree house.

The beacj part was easy. My wife works for Holiday Inn so we scored an Employee rate at the Holiday Inn in Wrightsville Beach, NC. A little over two hours is the drive and there's pretty much nothing between Raleigh and the beach. It can get boring. But the boys slept most of the way, that is until the wife got pulled over for speeding by an unmarked police car.

I'd tell you more but all you locals can read about it in the next issue of Raleigh's Hatchet magazine ( where it will be the bulk of my Confessions Of A Punk Rock Dad column.

Anyway, to brief you on the subject, the wife and I spent the better part of four days - from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. - contructing a tree house for the kids in our backyard. By Day Two, my body was so sore I thought I was coming down with the flu. By Day 4, I couldn't close my fingers into a fist from excessive use of hammer and drill.

Hey, but will built the fucking thing in a week.
And it's strong, study and has a god damn tin roof to boot.

Too Much Time On Their Hands

I've officially come to the conclusion that most bloggers have entirely too much time on their hands.


Pot calling the kettle black?
Maybe so, but I haven't posted anything in two weeks and suddenly my password has changed, the Pope has died and my son had a birthday.

People think that being a stay-at-home-dad, I have all the time in the world on my hands.
I should be posting a good half dozen blogs a day. To some extent, I agree. I should be posting more.

So prepare yourself for the dazzling display of catch up I'm going to do this evening....