I HAD TO SHAVE MY BALLS, AND WHY IT MADE ME WANT TO WATCH ANCIENT ALIENS

Eye-catching headline. I know.

But never mind my uncanny ability to string together a few words that grab your attention. What you really want to know is:
-Why did I have to shave my balls? And...
-What does that have to do with Ancient Aliens?

Well stick around, and I'll tell you.

If you bothered to read my "About" page, which i'm guessing you didn't (hell, I barely took the time to write it) you would know that my wife and I have two children. At the time of writing this, our son is 3 years old, and our daughter is 5 months old. God bless those little cherubs.

We were one of those couples that were "never going to have kids. EVER." We told our families we would never have kids. We told our siblings that we would never have kids. We told our employers that we would never have kids. We used to walk around with the sole purpose of telling random people that had kids, that we would never have kids. We told EVERYONE that we would never have kids.

Then, my wife said it. That sentence that starts with, "I don't know, maybe we should...." My brain finished it for her a thousand times over, "get that new big screen", "add on 4 more garages to the house", "catch a flight to Vegas", "install a stripper pole in the basement", "buy you a motorcycle", "invest big time in that beef jerky company, because I love beef jerky as much as you do"...you get the idea. But even with all those perfect sentence-finishing thoughts, my mouth was paralyzed. Well, not completely paralyzed, as I managed to muster a SlingBlade-esque "French Fried Pertaters. Mmmmhhhmmmppfff."

And then, like in Mortal Combat when the narrators deep voice says, "FINISH HIM", and Sub-Zero proceeds to rip out his opponent's spine and hold it up for all to see, while blood pours out of the headless, lifeless body at his feet, she said it. "Have kids."

Ok, it wasn't quite that bad, I'm still alive. And quite honestly, I had been expecting this. What was determined from the conversation that followed was that we would have a maximum of 3 kids (I'm such a pussy, I know. 0 - 3. Shit!), or we would stop at 1 boy and 1 girl.

So we now have 1 boy and 1 girl, which brings us to me shaving my balls.

I was shaving my balls in preparation for a vasectomy. (If you're an adult with no kids and reading this, and you don't know what a vasectomy is - go get one...now. The world will thank you.) Anyway, while I generally don't remember the shit my wife and I talked about 5 minutes ago, I do remember that particular conversation like it was yesterday. (A man's brain remembers only the important stuff.) The main point here is that my wife and I had an agreement, we shook hands on it (believe me, I remember), and a hand shake is a contract. And what kind of man would I be if I were to break a contract? Especially a contract with my wife.

So it's the morning before the day I put my ball bag under the knife, and I'm standing bare-ass in front of a mirror looking at my bird's nest, and given what I literally just wrote in the paragraph above about remembering the important shit, I can't, for the life of me, remember what my Dr. said about how to shave my pubes. This is important. Why can't I remember? I remember that he said I should take a Xanax about an hour before. I remember that he said I need to have someone to drive me home. and I remember that he explained to me what he cuts and how he cuts it, and that if all goes as planned, there will only be one entry point. Hmm...The shaving portion must not have been important at the time. I decide to wait until that night.

It's now the evening, I've been thinking about this all day, and time is running short. So I take to Google to search for the answer. The first result has to be correct, right? I click it, and my iPhone screen is overtaken by an oddly reflective and freshly shaved frank 'n' beans, followed by a pop-up that says that the FBI will arrest me for downloading illegal pornography and that my phone is frozen unless I transfer 50 Bitcoin to somewhere in Russia. (Because the FBI loves Bitcoin almost as much as they love Russia.) Also, and little did I know that, apparently, EVERY. SINGLE. DR. that provides vasectomy information on Google recommends (prefers?) a different method of shaving. This does me no good, as every recommendation is very different from the last. One of them recommended shaving my butthole! Plus, I'm standing there debating whether to use the electric clippers, or a traditional razor. A piece of information you would think would be included in at least a couple of these online tutorials - as f#@cked up as they might be.

In my desperation, I text my physician. Luckily, he responds right away with an answer as to what and where to shave, along with a vague warning to do it correctly or face dire consequences. It's no wonder this guy was voted best Doc in the city! Shit! I forgot to ask him what to use. Screw it. I have to maintain just a bit of my pride

So I start with the clippers (why I chose these as my first option, I'll get into in a second), and upon the first contact, I immediately regret my decision. I won't elaborate too much, but think about what a vacuum does to a light loose rug (it grabs the wrinkles, pulls those wrinkles in, and doesn't let go). Now imagine that your loose skin is that rug, and that that same vacuum has razors inside as opposed to brushes. Yep, that was fun!

So I reach for the traditional razor, and I have to pause. I think about what I'm about to do and the desired result, but all I can think about is that when I'm through, and upon a closer inspection of my goolies, that I might observe what looks like the mysteriously sheared-off mountain tops that appear in the desert landscape of Nazca in southern Peru. Oh well, I really have no choice, and a small section is already bleeding. Let's see what happens. I go forth very carefully, and soon realized that my fears were for nothing, and that my initial choice of using the clippers was absolutely moronic and had only been made out of sheer lunacy due to the precious nature of my subject.

I finish. I look in the mirror. The bird's nest is no more. Now only the eggs remain - and they are oddly reflective. At that moment, I feel a great sense of accomplishment and relief, and my mind wanders to thoughts of Nazca. As circumstances would have it, this all happened on a Friday. There's usually an Ancient Aliens marathon on Friday. I love that show.

On a more serious note, if you are required to shave your balls for medical purposes, or after reading the above you just feel the urge to do so, don't screw around and dick it up like I did. Use a traditional razor to get the job done right the first time. I would recommend getting your hands on a high quality blade and handle, or even an entire shaving package for, well, your package. Or, go ahead and don't take my advice. It's no skin off of my balls.

POSSIBLY TO BE CONTINUED...