Now I’ve failed my third sperm test, it looks like the vasectomy I had last year didn’t make a vas deferens to my fertility. Of course, the good thing about having a failed vasectomy is that I can crack that joke. And I suppose it’ll be nice to have another chinwag with the doctor about work and the dreadful state of the roads around Cambridge, but all things considered, I’d prefer not have to make idle chit-chat with a man who is wiggling a knife around in my goolies.
Apparently 1 in 2000 vasectomies don’t work. I don’t really see what can go wrong – you chop a couple of pipes and seal the ends up. I could do that myself with a penknife and a soldering iron. Unless the doctor has trouble counting past 1, in order to fail, the little wriggly buggers must have repaired the pipes. I’ve got millions of Bob the Builders living in my scrotum. Can they fix it? Yes, the little fuckers can. I wonder if I could get them to fix the toaster? I might chuck a few in there to see what happens.
Oh, and hello Ross. Sorry for damaging your property.
Update: The doctor gave it some extra cauterising this time. As the room echoed to the crackling of searing flesh, I heard a voice from behind the veil of smoke say “I’d like to see them get past THAT…”