TRUMP RALLY IN MY BALLS by JOE TOWER

So, recently, I became a dog father. My wife and I adopted a small, older, female chihuahua. Her name is Bones.

We totally tried to have kids. And it just, totally, didn’t work.

It's fine. We're fine. I mean, yeah, it did suck a little at first. And during. And then every time my wife got her period, when we fell into a spiraling depression. 

Nevermind. I guess it sort of sucked the whole time.

The thing about trying to have a baby is this: for so long you try not to do this one thing, and end up pregnant, right? In fact, you try to actively prevent it. You run away from it, as though, somehow, it could sneak up on you from around a dark corner at any moment. And then, finally, suddenly, you're older, and you've met your match, and you're comfortable, and you feel ready, and so you decide to pull your proverbial thumb out of the proverbial hole in the proverbial levee, the thing that's been the only thing between you and the flood, and when you finally do, there ain't nothing but a desert on the other side.

It got even more sucky when we decided to start talking to specialists, which, if you can, you should try to never do. For anything. Never talk to specialists. It sucked mostly because of some health problems that popped up, which ultimately were a positive, I suppose, but also, it gave me an opportunity, as a man, to see first-hand how the fertility industry is skewered against the women it relies on and claims to care for.

My wife had so much more to contend with than I did.

We were at this clinic, and I won't name names but FUCK THAT PLACE, and we're in the doctor’s office sitting across his desk from him, and he doesn’t even really address me at any point. He doesn’t even really look at me, but he's talking to my wife -- still a very young 39, mind you -- as though, at any moment, her uterus is just going to pack up all its things and move to a retirement community in Florida. You know? Like it is so old, he can hardly conceive of the idea that she is trying to conceive a fucking baby. He is referring to her uterus like, at any second, it is just going to turn into a pile of dust. 

And then he decides that he needs to determine what's going on "up there," like her vagina is a cave, or something, and so he has a nurse take us into an exam room and he proceeds to administer a trans-vaginal ultrasound on my wife and, I mean, you basically know what I'm talking about if you've ever seen "Fire In The Sky." And my wife was traumatized, and it was crazy, and she got dressed and we left, and we walked to our car in tears.

I had to get a scrotal ultrasound, because what was up with me was this: I have low sperm morphology. That means that the "integrity" of my sperm is not great. My count is awesome, so basically, it all just means that there are a lot of people at my rally, but, like, they're all Trump supporters.

Anyways, because I joined my wife at her humiliating examination, she joined me for mine, and we went into this room and I laid down on a weird bed under a weird light, and a weird nurse sat down next to me with this "wand," and was weird about everything because, apparently, during a scrotal ultrasound, they want everything to do with your balls and nothing to do with your penis. They don't want to see it, man. They don't want to know it. They don't even want to think about it. I don't know if it's, like, a legal thing, or if they're just like, "We do balls here, man. We only do balls. We specialize in balls. So let's just leave dicks out of it." And so she gives me these two paper towels and puts one above and one below, you know, my dick, and she says, "I will turn around and you will remove the penis and tuck it up under the top paper towel, and rest the scrotum on the bottom paper towel," and so I do that, and she turns back around, and my dick's tucked up underneath one paper towel, and then there are my balls, just resting on top of this other paper towel like a bag of peanuts.

When she greases it up and starts going at it with the ultrasound wand, I have to tell you guys, aside from the precarious position of my penis, it actually felt kind of good. It was all so silly and ridiculous, and, you know, fine, that when my wife and I walked out of the clinic, back to our car, we laughed our asses off.

In all honesty, I have to say, the two of us proceeded to have a really long, really hard year -- and I mean we all did because, you know, Republicans and Trump and shit -- and it was a year that just really tested us as a couple. We weathered it together, of course, and came out stronger on the other side, of course, and when we decided that we were, definitively, not going to try to have kids anymore because we genuinely didn't want kids, we did that together, too. Because that's just how you have to do it in this life otherwise it's not worth anything.

At the very end, though, when things got good again, my wife turned to me, and she kissed me, and she said she loved me, but she was like, "You owe me big time," not really saying those exact words, per se, but, like, that was the general consensus, and not just really me, per se, but, like, everyone. And you know what? She's right, because I have to tell you this: fuck, when you're trying to get pregnant and you can't get pregnant, nothing will ever be as easy as having to get a scrotal ultrasound. 

Nothing.