Barney the Dinosaur Gave Me a Vasectomy

"Number 576? Your order is ready." A chill went down my spine. Could this truly be the end? It was a Black Friday evening, and I had spent all day searching for the greatest possible deals on cell phones, Nintendo Switch consoles, and even common everyday accessories such as lightbulbs and ear wax removal kits. Well, no more time to get emotional about life. Had I failed at life? Had humanity's existence been a collective cry out of 'let's fail, let's fail, let's fail together at life'? It sure felt that way when you witness all of the people toppling each other down and stampeding all over arms, legs, faces, torsos, and Sunny Day Real Estate t-shirts just to pick up the modern-day equivalent of a tickle me elmo doll or pet rock at $10 off the normal price sticker. But as for me, I never got a real job.
I bit into the Taco Bell Doritos Loco taco and fantasized about what life could have been before I heard a bloodcurdling scream. This actually didn't bother me: it was Atlantic City, New Jersey, and having a gun and showing it off was the norm (that and standing on a streetcorner padding your foot down on the gravel going 'Hey, baby!' In other words: prostitution). It was at that point that I realized I was an antinatalist. If life is suffering, what's the point in having children? Besides, the taco meat resembled an underdeveloped fetus, and had approximately the same texture and consistency. In my mouth.
When I got home I scheduled my vasectomy operation. I'll admit that the phone number seemed... a bit strange. If you rearranged the numbers into letters like you would on an old touchtone house phone, the number could come out to '1-877-PAI-NNOW'. 1-877-PAIN-NOW? I suppose a vasectomy had to be painful. It was a pretty tender area, after all.
The next day I enjoyed my traditional breakfast of Mountain Dew and Taco Bell products before catching an Uber over to the doctor's office. I offered to tip the driver, but instead he tipped his cabby hat and offered me a tip: some friendly words of advice from a concerned stranger. "They say they're extinct, but personally, I'd say he stinks." I asked him to elaborate but instead he licked the side of my baggy gray sweatpants, so I immediately got out of the cab and left him a 1-star review.
The scene inside the office was curious. Children looking horrified. Mystified. One, eyes bulging, muttered some mystery about discovering a discarded knife in a sandcastle. Another told a story about deconstructing his Christianity, settling on belief in a noninterventionist Deistic god, and then arriving at a Richard Dawkins style full-blown New Atheism because of the horrors he could never hope to unsee. I rang the receptionist's bell, asking what children were doing in a vasectomy doctor's office. With a contrived and contorted full-tooth grin, I was simply told "You're next". As I was. Number 576. Familiar.
Perusing the posters, I read similar motivational captions. "I love you. You love me." "We are one true family." "Reality is but buttered popcorn in a grease-soaked paper bag." That last one felt a little off. Finally, it was my turn. "P.S.?", the receptionist inquired. Those are my initials. "You're next."
As I approached the doctor's office, I noticed that the contrasts and hues of the posters and portraits were becoming more and more gray. I suppose they weren't kidding when they said that there were '50 Shades of Gray'. I felt as if I was marching single file to a prison cell, because not only were the captions getting murkier but so were the surrealistic, Salvador Dali style illustrations. "I love none. None love me. Codependence makes love a fantasy." "Even eons of evolution cannot make bacteria family." "There is no butter. Only salt." Instead of, say, the melted clocks of Dali-style surrealism, there were zoomed in pixels, and before the full-scale grays I noticed puce. The same color of squatted insect remains.
A nurse with no sign of love for life slightly twisted open the doorknob, and there was the doctor. I couldn't help but let out an audible gasp when I realized what it was. Not that he wasn't a doctor, but something seemed to be not quite right.
A doctor in a purple t-shirt, green jeans, and slight, conical protrusions—slight, but enough that I could eye them with the naked eye—protruded from his back. "Come on in. Have a seat.", he enunciated clearly but in a distinct monotone. I was having second thoughts about this. Maybe I could just practice abstinence. "Sit.", he addended, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. I did just that, planting my buttocks on top of the paper of the examination table. At that point I expected him to ask me some questions about my medical history, but instead he started tapping me with a reflex hammer—not just elbows and knees, but... in my private area. "I'm not comfortable.", I blurted without thinking twice. "Your reflexes are marvelous.", he callously remarked, same tone as before. What? "I'm feeling sore now. I think I should go." "We could hasten the operation, if you will.", he replied without a moment's notice, as if in anticipation of my very observation. "No, I should go—"
I can't begin to describe the pain, terror, and agony of the next half an hour, which extended into days, if not weeks, of torture and tingling in my nether regions. Somehow, as startling as my misery was, the drastic manipulation of his tone of voice was even more stand-offish. So nasally. Like a cheery Bullwinkle the Moose, or Anthony Kiedis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers (I could never tell the difference between the two). "I love you. You love me. That's the point of humanity." Was he singing? It sounded an awful lot like singing. "With a big bang burst, and guiding light from me to you, you have strayed too far from the root." I shielded my ballsack with my hands to guard myself from continued penetrations from his pointed-hammer before I high-pitched mumbled an inference that may seem silly to anyone who hasn't experienced what I have gone through. "Are you god?".
I don't know what I expected at that point. His eyes to go all white/sclera, or all black pupil like some sort of carnivorous movie monster? Blood to dribble down from every orifice of his grizzled face? A wink, smile, or nudge, to somehow let me know that it was all going to be okay, and that I was simply a victim of a med school prank gone horribly wrong? "I want you to look at something", the doctor stated, before taking seven paces to the west, picking up a framed photograph, and handing it to me as a proffer rather than an offer. This guy really, really wanted me to take a look at whatever the hell it was.
Well, I looked at his photograph. No, it wasn't a photograph—it was a portrait, and a shining example of realism at that. Orange hair, protruding flat-edged nose, white color shirt. Although it wasn't a full-body drawing, I could tell he was on the skinny side. "That looks an awful lot like George Jetson", I managed to squeeze out from my throat before fainting from the nerve damage, which I still suffer from today.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. Not an emergency room, but a typical hospital room with bed, TV, private bathroom, tiny sofa, bedside rolling table—all the usual amenities. I laid down in disbelief for what must have been at least fifteen or twenty minutes. I felt a sort of disembodiment from my reproductive area, or what had been left of it. I checked the date on a wall calendar: August 22nd, 2022.
Finally, a blonde-haired nurse with a Georgian accent came in and delivered the news.
"Your transsexual surgery was a sweeping success, ma'am. Oh, by the way: congratulations on your nephew. Your sister is so proud of her little George."
Yet... I had no siblings.
I also never received my vasectomy.
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