Here’s the thing: I’m infertile. Really. For all my lustiness, my buckling of swash, my war cries of love that frighten the neighborhood children and send people running for church, my boys just don’t swim. They barely twitch. I don’t know how long this has been going on, but I’m pretty sure it means I didn’t have to be concerned with birth control (which means I want a refund, you overpriced bastards).

I’ve learned this the hard way, after two trips to the wank room and one to the operating theater, where I was opened up and had deli slices taken off my testes. (By the way, the rest of this post will be full of stuff like this. If this violates your sensibilities, it might be time to turn off this page and open up, say, Garfield. Oh, you silly kitty…) This hasn’t been a pretty process. It has, in fact, been a serious blow to my manhood. I want to be a father, I’m ready to be a father, but then my sperm all say, “Nah. We’re just gonna sit around all day and watch tv. Look, Oprah’s on!” That I have lazy sperm, I can deal. That they’re lazy, Oprah-watching bastards drives me up the wall. Turn off the tube and do some laps!

We’ve tried the Western method of making me more fertile, and that seems to involve expensive vitamins with something like a billion percent of the RDAs of everything. It wound up giving me a rash and gas. Fuck that.

So, now we’re trying the Eastern method, which means having a small Chinese lady stick needles into my flesh. I’ve always been curious about acupuncture, and, so far the results are refreshing. I got the needles, then I took a nap. Much more pleasant than, say, a trip to the wank room.

Rather than vitamins, I get herbal tea. It’s made of bark. Seriously. I have a bag of bark that I’m supposed to brew into the worst-tasting tea in the world. When you were a kid, did you ever eat dirt? Of course, you all were that kid. Here’s the thing: dirt does not taste good. What you did for comedy or dare money when you were eight is what I do three times a day. A cup of dirt tea a day. I don’t know what the medicinal value is; if anything, the tea is a way of making the rest of my body angry at my testicles. Within a month, I’m sure my taste buds will be screaming, “Maybe if you fuckers did your thing, I wouldn’t have to put up with this crap. Get to work, dammit!”

There are also the exercises, which is the one thing of all of this that makes me think it’s some kind of practical joke. “Massage the umbilicus 81 times in a clockwise motion.” “Press your Hui Yin spot 37 times.” Why 81? Why 37? Where the fuck is my Hui Yin spot?

But I’m doing this stuff for a simple reason: so I can guilt the kids for the rest of their lives into behaving. If they ever act up, I can fix them with a fatherly stare and say, “I had to drink dirt tea and massage my prostate every day for three months so you could come into this world and play Xbox. Go pick up your room.”

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go touch myself in a clinical manner.