Gosh, I can’t remember the last time I even looked at Livejournal. I’ve neglected it for so long that I can’t bring myself to even click on the button to see what everyone has been up to. Well, I have most of the LJ people on my twitter list anyway, and it’s far easier to read about everyone’s life condensed into 140 characters than being hit with an uncut (*cough* Bev *cough*) tsunami of text and pics. And I get to skip all the boring fashion stuff that girls yawn on about. But still, damn you twitter… damn you. Honestly if it wasn’t for twitter, I’d probably still be banging out word’s on this ol’ page.

From what I can see, in a nutshell, every damn girl and their silly little fashion pug dog is pregnant. 2010 seems to be the bakers year, that is, the year that every girl I know seems to be putting a bun in their oven. So that leads me to surmise that 2011 will be the year that those buns rise into fun little loaves of projectile vomiting joy. Green poo dispensing and milk harvesting joy. Congrats to like Bev, Denise, Jean, Patricia, etc etc etc… As much as I wish you all the best and want to congratulate you girls, will you all stop frickin’ tying up the storks??? Seriously!!

I placed my order for one and UPS (United Postal Stork) was meant to deliver mine like… yesterday, and it still isn’t here!!! Sigh… well they say good things come to those who wait. Like touchscreen mobiles, unlimited broadband, hover cars, porn going mainstream, and the death of Stephen Conroy, hopefully when it’s time for me to play my role as a baker it will all be worth it.

People keep telling me to be patient and that it will be my time soon enough. But this is a person whom embraces technology before they’ve identified all the flaws and pays a premium on the gray market because he’s too impatient to wait for it to arrive domestically. I like having my things now because that’s how I roll. Not the best quality in a man, but I try to justify it by telling myself I have far worse qualities that demand more immediate attention :)

Anyway, after being married for 3 years (ding on 3 years just 1.5 weeks ago), and having to wait for the green light for like 95% of that time, I think I’m allowed to stomp my feet just a little petulantly. Which leads to where we are now. Just having gone for full fertility checks and enjoying (well me anyway), the resulting goldmine of comic material.

Granted, while the checks for a guy are relatively easy (I jizzed… in… my cup), it was a far more uncomfortable process for Erica. It was by no means any less comical mind you, the comical part of which I’ve been forbidden from sharing (dammit!), but elements of it have made me laugh like a child much to Erica’s disdain.

Admittedly, the specialists say that people don’t normally get full checks so early on in the process of trying for a milk monster, but I figure what’s the harm right? Better to know of any problems up front then to discover the hard way later. I mean, if there’s even the tiniest and most infinitely remote chance of knowing that I may have a little toe thumbed beast, I’d like to know in advance. So Erica had her third and final check yesterday and hopefully the baby factory gets it’s ISO approval.

A female check isn’t the most pleasant process. In fact, it’s pretty darn unpleasant. Unless you like having all manner of alien experiments conducted on your cha cha that is. As is my limited understanding of the process anyway. It makes all my complaints about having to rub one out on demand in a cup sound like a frickin’ day at the spa.

Which leads me to this. The sperm test. It would be a crying shame for me not to document my experience of a process of which most guys only know about through B grade comedies. Usually ones involving road trips, college jocks, purile humour, and much gratuitous flashing of bewbs. The best kind of movie.

So what does every guy know about sperm samples? Let me just separate some fact from fiction.

Jerking off in a cup: True
A hot nurse is somehow involved: False
Whole process is somewhat, or very, awkward: True
Assistive material is provided: False
Degree of bashful and embarrassed foot shuffling involved: True

Now I’m sure your mileage will vary with that summary depending on which country you’re from, but here at the corner of a global region that is still regarded as being very conservative, I guess it’s no big surprise. Not to be captain obvious or anything, but hoping for prime jack off material to be provided in a country where porno mags are outlawed, is probably too much to hope for.

So where was I? Oh yes, the experience. I walked into Raffles UroRenal centre all ready to get my duties done like any proud and hopeful father to be. I was a good boy and abstained doing some form of dirty all week. As such, if my swimmers weren’t all plentiful, bright eyed and bushy tailed, and queuing up to bang at the exit after this, I don’t know if they ever would. And I brought porn on phone to assist. There it is. No sparkling wit or charming innuendo, just porn… on my mobile. What? I gotta fast track this thing! It’s not like I have time to relax on the couch and pretend like I was at the playboy mansion. I’m on the clock here! Which leads me to a point I will get to, there was no couch.

Well anyhoo, I walk into the Doctors office. The doctor was a man. Just in case anyone was wondering, I think he was straight. You know… guys being funny about these things and all. Just FYI. So we chatted a bit, just some quick getting to know yous, then he had his hands all over my junk.

Now there was something about this which was all a little strange to me. Not the fact that he had his hands thoroughly exploring my junk like the NASA Mars Rover on that delightful red planet, I mean of course that was strange too, but more so that he wasn’t wearing gloves! Okay fair enough I don’t know if wearing gloves is like SOP, but as Joe Ignoramus on all matters of ball examination, I just assumed that Doctors wore gloves for these sorta things.

At least he washed his hands after, so that’s some relief, but I don’t think he washed his hands before. So I just hope that he didn’t finish conducting examinations on like some local football team, or any for that matter, just before I walked in.

So now comes the fun part. One of the first things the Doc did was apologise for the centre having no dedicated facilities to facilitate my facilitation of my sperm delivery facilities. He cited that budget constraints didn’t allow for a dedicated room for such collections. A room conducive for men to undertake what most don’t realise is actually a very stressful process. Fuck.

As part of my online research prior to this, I read about the best I could expect, and the worst I could expect. I hoped for the best, I ended up with the worst. FML. I walked in hoping that I would have a little room all to myself, furnished at minimum with a comfy little couch that I could relax on while I attended to the business at hand (hahaha… see what I did there?). You know, it would almost be like looking after a friends house whilst he was away and rubbing out a sly one because well… who’s ever gonna know right?

Wrong. 1 patient. 1 cup. 1 public toilet with 1 toilet cubicle. For those whom have never been in a mens public toilet, let me just paint you a picture. I don’t care you don’t want to imagine it, I had to go through it so now you have to as well. Imagine standing there huddled over a toilet seat with absolutely no flat surface to balance your damn specimen cup or anything else on.

Being a male toilet, imagine having to get in the mood while standing in a pool of piss… as is the norm because most guys just can’t seem to fucking piss in a fricken massive hole to save their lives. No, they have to piss all around it.

Imagine standing in the only cubicle not wanting to do it, not knowing if you even can or how long it’s going to take, and hoping to god no one is impatiently queuing outside busting to take a crap and about to hammer on the door.

Imagine the musical cacophony of urinals auto-flushing, guys coughing, hocking up, and spitting phlegm god only knows where.

Imagine the rapturous odour parfum of piss and toilet cakes scenting the room with their fragrant delight.

Imagine having to try and completely block out all this fucking stimuli and attain the complete state of mental zen required in order to end the damn war and pull the troops out. To furiously try to bat one out like the President’s life depended on it.

Thankfully, I have porn, and I have much practice and discipline. And so I finally crossed that finish line like a triumphant Lance Armstrong on his final tour de france victory.

Much bashful foot shuffling and eye to floor shenanigans ensued when I had to exit the toilet and commence the jizz cup to nurse relay.

So that was my whole experience. A long time from now when I’m all old and crusty like, sitting on my favourite chair by the fireplace, my grandson perched on my lap, asking me awkward questions about how he came to be, and I’ll say “Dear boy, let me tell you a story. I walk into the doctors office. The doctor was a man…”