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You know how fond of vasectomies we are here at DadCentric. By “fond of vasectomies,” I mean “fond of writing about (and making comic strips of) the horrors and embarrassment of vasectomies.”

(I’ve never detailed here or anywhere else my personal experience with the snip-snip some eight years ago, so here’s the Twitter version: “A strange man shaved my boys bald. Later, during the procedure, he failed to use enough anesthesia. I kicked him squarely in the jaw.”)

Anyway, I received an e-mail the other day with the subject line: “New Video Shows How Men Can Man-Up When It Comes to Permanent Birth Control.” I assumed it to be a plug for a new brand of pain-numbing, memory-wiping tequila to suck down prior to and immediately after getting one’s manhood hacked and, hey, no one needs to poke me with a sharp scalpel to get me to take a shot of The Worm Burn, so I took a gander.

Instead I was treated to a pitch for a type of procedure in which a doctor sticks plastic barriers inside “a woman’s fallopian tubes through the cervix without incisions” to block the eggs from the incoming sperm … and 58 seconds of dudes allegedly being all squeamish in reaction to watching a video of other guys getting their sacks permanently sacked:

I am all in favor of advances in medical technology but a few steps forward in marketing strategy would be nice, too. What exactly is the viewer to take away from this? I offer these two suggestions:

1) Hey there, wimpy yet virile man! Avoid a few days of pain and several bags of frozen peas by talking your special lady into this new procedure in which a doctor shoehorns widgets right smack into her baby-making equipment!

Or:

2) Hey there, empowered yet feminine woman! Your man is a wuss when it comes to responsibility, like putting down the toilet seat and birth control. Teach him a lesson by letting us invade your lady parts so we can build the Great Wall of Sperm Deflection! Right on, sister!

All I know is, when decision time came for me I figured my wife did enough in hosting my little swimmers (and its vehicle for delivery) time and time again over the years and, for an encore, she squeezed two bowling balls in two years out of her Box O’ Joy. The least I could do was not be a candy-ass and just get the ol’ cut and paste in the family jewels for her sake.

But that’s just the way I’m cut.