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Tuesday, April 5, 2011

The Solitaire Effect

The innocuous-looking GENT-L-KARE plastic specimen container's volume is 4 ounces.

The quantity of the average human's ejaculate is between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. By nautical comparison, the Southern Right Whale unleashes approximately five gallons of seminal fluid in a single mating session. Fortunately, whales do not often need to ejaculate into little plastic specimen containers.

Unfortunately, tomorrow, I do.

Yes, kids, it's another infertility post. If that's not your thing, there's lots of good porn out there that I can't masturbate to until tomorrow morning at approximately 6:30am.

Then, I will race the semen over to the lab (it has to get there in one hour-- I'll be driving like those crazy Gift of Life people with their coolers full of kidneys) and try to make it to work on-time. I've already asked for permission from my supervisor to come in half-an-hour later and work a half-an-hour later.

"Why?" she asked.

"Um, I have an... appointment?" She furrowed her brow at me.

"That early in the morning?"

I hesitated.


She regarded me quizically. She probably thinks I'm on drugs. Unfortunately, I'm not.

Of course, because I am not medicated, I am obsessing about the details of this little... process.

"I'm scared I'm going to get it everywhere," I complained to my wife, who has already endured several invasive procedures/tests, and was probably the wrong person to complain to.

"Look, you pussy," she said to me, "just as you're about to jit, tilt downward and put the cup right over your dick."

I stared at her.

"Excuse me, are you attempting to give me points on masturbation? That's like Rick Moranis trying to give Kobe Bryant lessons on basketball, or sex with hot chicks."

"Right, sorry," Mrs. Apron said, "I forgot that you invented jerking off."

"No," I replied, "I just minored in it in college."

The funny thing is, because you have to eliminate the sample (whoa-- I sound like Hitler) within an hour of getting it to the lab, I'll be doing this while normal people are getting dressed and ready for work. Maybe they'll be sitting down to a bowl of Cracklin' Oat Bran or Raisin Balls or something, and I'll be cruising the net for porn. Sure, I could involve Mrs. Apron in this endeavor (she volunteered to "help") but, for some reason, I'm opting to do this the old fashioned way. Call it the Solitaire Effect, but this is something I'd prefer to do alone.

Don't ask me why. Anybody who'd give up real, live play from one's cute-n-pert life-mate in favor of masturbation clearly needs psych meds.

I know me, though-- I'm going to be way too nervous and freaked to be any fun, way too disorganized and trembling to involve another person in this madness. I'm scared I'm going to miss the container entirely, forget to close the window shade in the office, spooge on my trousers, not be able to get it up (um, that one's probably irrational) and that I'll crash the car on the way to the lab, that I'll get stopped by the police for speeding and they'll test the contents of the container on the passenger seat next to me thinking it's some kind of new fangled liquid crack.

Of course, the thing I'm most afraid of is that they'll find my semen are all broken, or that they wear funny little moustaches, or that they are deformed, or that they only speak Korean.

My silly little semen. Never called upon to do anything particularly consequential in life except for reduce that nagging, dull heaviness in my ballsack, they will now face the most important splonk of their life: they will be examined, put through the ringer, tested and prodded, and will they measure up?

I don't know. And I'm scared.

But only after placing them inside the sterile GENT-L-KARE container, UPN#00605863492803, will we know the gloopy, gloppity, slippery, slimey truth.

Keep your testes crossed for me, kids.


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