As background, the following is something I wrote for a podcast written and produced by some fellow Second City students.   Not everyone knows this, but Second City is actually a comedy university, not just a place to go see a show.  You can take classes on a wide variety of comedic subjects like improv, stand up, writing, acting, etc.  I’ve taken a few writing classes over the last couple years, and last summer took a class called “Writing the Humorous Memoir.”  That was fun, so I went on to the next class.  After that, I was asked to be a part of a new podcast that was starting up called “Personal.Disclosures.”  The podcast includes others, like me, from Second City telling stories about their lives.  The first podcast will be out in a month or two, so stay tuned for info on that.  I’ll post more of these, because why the hell not.

The topic for this podcast is “Bodily Functions and Malfunctions”?  Really?  What sick fuck thought that up?  Who wants to hear about bodily functions, or worse, malfunctions?  I have a strict policy against talking about what goes in or out of my body, and that means bodily functions, almost by definition.  So I am not sure how I got signed up for this podcast.  But hey, that was the assignment.  There is no “I” in podcast, so I will do my best.

Other than air, food and ridiculous amounts of Bud Light, there isn’t really anything else that goes into my body that I can think of.  So no story there.  Ok, yea, I had a colonoscopy a few months ago because I turned 50 and that’s what you do when you turn 50.  I could talk about what went into getting ready for that procedure, which is not pleasant, but like I said, I don’t talk about that stuff.  So gross.    

One takeaway from the colonoscopy, however, was that I was supposed to have someone sign me out and take me home, because I was drugged up from the procedure.  I didn’t have anyone to drive me home.  Kind of depressing.  I guess I could have asked someone, but Trish drove me home from my two previous medical procedures, and I didn’t want anyone else.  I know that doesn’t make any sense at all, but so what, that’s my life.  How about you do you, and let me do me.  Anyway, after the procedure, I got a cab to a Japanese steakhouse and filled my colon right back up with steak and salmon, thinking about Trish and why she couldn’t be here for when I had a medical thing, like she was the two other times.

The first time was when I got hit in the eyeball after the Kentucky Derby in 1995.  I was walking along the third story balcony at a Motel 6 with my idiot friends when I was hit by a projectile.  Said projectile turned out to be a golf ball sized water balloon shot from a so-called funnelator that a bunch of other idiots were shooting at people from the parking lot.  A funnelator is a giant slingshot that takes three guys to operate, with two guys holding each side of a rubber band, and a guy in the middle pulling back the slingshot.  They got me right in the fucking eyeball, and blew out the orbital bone under the eyeball.  I needed surgery, and they replaced the bone under my eyeball with a little rubber mat.  Trish drove me home after that procedure, and with Mongo’s help, we sued those motherfuckers, winning enough for Trish and me to buy our first house.

That’s about it for things going into my body—air, food, Bud Light, the colonoscopy thing and a little rubber mat under my right eyeball.  As for things coming out of my body, of course that happens, but really?  No need to talk about it.  What comes out is certainly worse than what is going in.  I’m racking my brain here, and I can only think of 7 things that have ever come out of my body that I am willing to discuss.

First off, I have four kids.  So that means four times something came out of my body that was at least somewhat productive.  That’s all I have to say about that.

Second, I am proud to announce that I produce a crystal-clear piss stream.  All of your successful college and pro football teams emphasize the need to hydrate.  Many teams post a chart next to the urinals so you can compare the color of your piss to the chart.  Yellow is very bad, and selfish, really.  Clear is very good.  The athletes who piss clear are recognized as good teammates and accomplished hydrators.  I take pride in being in the latter category of good teammates and dedicated hydrators.

I am the most hydrated motherfucker you ever met.  I wake up, I start pounding large tumblers of ice water.  Sometimes that’s because I am hungover, but not always.  By midmorning I am not only hydrating but also caffeinating, downing multiple Diet Cokes or iced teas, depending on my mood.  In the afternoon, it is usually back to the H2O, but sometimes the Bud Light, if it’s a game day.  At night, it is either the big tumblers of water, or Bud Light, which science says aren’t that much different.  Either way, I am pissing clear, morning, noon and night.  I have often challenged a guy to a clear pissing contest and won every time, and by “often” I mean it happened once, and I won.

So that’s five things that have come out of my body—four ejaculations that produced kids, and a constant clear piss stream.  The final two things are two macaroni sized pieces of my vas deferens on each side of my nut sack.

In case you aren’t aware, a guy’s testicles hang in a bag under his penis, also known as the scrotum.  Sometimes the bag is loose and free, and the balls hang low, which is nice and comfortable.  But if the balls are bouncing around, like when you are playing a sport or engaged in other fun activities, the nut sack constricts, and holds the balls up nice, safe and protected, which is useful in certain circumstances.

Within the bag, a duct connects each of the balls to the penis.  The balls produce sperm, which the duct sends up to the penis as needed.  The balls also produce testosterone, which is a completely separate function from producing sperm.  You can disconnect the sperm by cutting the ducts, also known as the vas deferens, but the testicles keep producing testosterone.  I know all of this is true from personal experience, and because I read it on the internet.   

I’m just telling you this as background information, but it is kinda relevant.

I have always been very protective of my testicles.  All guys are, but I think I may be an outlier in this area.  I’m fine if the boys are protected, either drawn up tight when playing sports, or other fun activities, but if they get so much as tapped when hanging loose and free, you might as well count me out for the rest of the day.  I get nauseous, and sick, and can’t even function.  Kind of weak to admit, because all guys get wracked at some point, and most take it better than me, I am sure.  My buddy Mongo took a golf ball drive to the nuts and, by all accounts, took it like champ.  Not me.   

One of my worst shots to the ball sack was before Trish and I were married.  I had Trish on my shoulders putting up a sign for my aunt’s birthday party.  When she jumped down, her foot caught me in the balls, hanging loose in a pair of shorts.  I was fucking out for the rest of the night.  I was worse the next morning, with my balls swollen up like a grapefruit, and worse the day after that.  It was awful.  I was convinced that I had “torsion of the testicles,” where the testicles get tangled up in the nut sack, the blood supply is cut off and they die.  I was sure that Trish and I would never have kids.  Well, she might, but not with me.

I went to the doctor, and informed him of my twisted testicles.  He laughed at me.  He said I had some pain because I got hit in the nuts, and to take some Tylenol if I couldn’t handle it.  He basically told me to man up, and not be a little bitch about it.  So I walked around with swollen balls for a week, and tried not to be a little bitch about it.  The swelling eventually went away, but I was more protective of my boys.

Flash forward ten years to the birth of our fourth kid, Jake.  Trish had a very rough pregnancy, and was on bed rest for a couple months at the end.  We now had three girls and a boy, so we were certainly done having kids.  Trish suggested that it was time for me to have a vasectomy.

After all that she had been though over the last eight years having kids, I couldn’t really object.  I couldn’t say anything really.  I didn’t like the idea one bit, and was scared as hell, but what could I say.  I tried not to be a little bitch about it. 

When the day arrived, Trish drove me to the doctor, and waited for me when I went in for the procedure.  The doctor explained that it was a simple procedure, and he would simply be going in and removing two small macaroni sized pieces of the ducts connecting my balls to the penis, which would eliminate the flow of sperm to the penis.  Then he would clip off the tubes to keep them from growing back together.  He assured me that I would not notice any difference when ejaculating, but I would now be firing blanks.

I was awake for the procedure, with a shot to numb the private parts.  The doctor told me I wouldn’t feel anything.  That was a lie.  When he started in, I felt a pull that made my toes curl and I nearly jumped off the table.  I tried to send my mind elsewhere, and not think about it.  As bad as it was, I remembered all that Trish had gone through in the reproductive department over the years giving birth to four kids.  I told myself this wasn’t as bad, and I only had to go through it once.  I made it through.

After finishing his work, the doctor proclaimed me fixed, and brought something to show me.  Lying on my back on the table, the doctor shoved two little pieces of wet macaroni on a paper towel in my face telling me that was the section of my vas deferens that he had clipped.  Still in distress from the tugs on my nut sack, I didn’t know what to think.  Part of me was fascinated, looking at that formerly essential part of my body that had allowed me to produce four kids.  Another part of me wanted to vomit, wondering what kind of sadistic fuck would show me that.  And then there was the part of me that thought, well, its cut out, maybe I could save those and show my buddies.  But I just grimaced, and nodded, glad this was finally over. 

The doctor told me I was free to go, and to get a frozen bag of peas and just sit on those all weekend.  I waddled out to the waiting room, still numb downstairs.  Trish was sympathetic, to a degree.  She was also kind of laughing at me, not exactly sorry to see me in pain, with me finally being the one with discomfort in the baby making department for a change. 

Trish drove us home, and I was quiet, with the pain growing in my scrotum with every bump and jostle.  Trish was quiet too, and we didn’t talk much on the way home.  Trish pulled into the garage and shut the garage door behind us.  I was reclined in the passenger seat, in a daze, trying to be as comfortable as possible, and not be a little bitch about it.  But the pain was growing, and I tried to avoid any movement.

After the garage door closed, Trish made no move to exit the car.  She just sat there, looking straight ahead.  She turned to me, with a tear in her eye.

“Do you realize we can’t have any more babies?” Trish asked me, serious, and sad.

OF COURSE I REALIZED WE COULDN’T HAVE ANY MORE BABIES!  I had just had my nut sack sliced open, and was fully aware of the ramifications.  I was way past the no more babies issue, and was deep into the intense pain in my testicles. 

BUT, the point was just hitting Trish, apparently.  She knew the ramifications long before, of course, when she suggested this torture, but the reality was a different matter, and it was just hitting her.  I should have seen this coming.  Trish could flip from an efficient, practical and reasonable woman one second, to an emotional mess the next.  She was doing that now.  She of course knew we couldn’t have any more babies, and Trish didn’t want to have any more babies.  But now it was real.  Now it was official, and Trish wouldn’t be having any more babies.  I could see in her eyes that she was thinking of Lilly, or Luke, or maybe even Anthony II, who would never be born.  Trish was mourning her unborn babies.

“Awwwe, Trish, its ok,” I said, leaning over to hug her.  Her tears were streaming now.  She had sent me to get a vasectomy, and was bawling now that it was done.

“We can’t have any more kids,” Trish said, sobbing.

I opened my door, and waddled around to her side to hug her, and hold her, and help her out of the car.  My nuts were throbbing, but Trish was the one in pain.