I Would Like To Know From Whence You Acquired Your Sweater Vest

Surprisingly, masturbating into a plastic tube in a hospital while reading old issues of Penthouse is not too terribly erotic. Who knew? I did like the way they still refer to them professionally as "reading material" and they come in this ominous white envelope. I didn't, however, like the implication that these very magazines had been utilized in the procurement of every sperm sample in the history of the hospital. Seeing Shannon Dougherty adorning the cover of Playboy was none too promising; a nude interview with the star of Heathers meant this had been used but a few scant years after I had been a sperm myself. I thought to myself ,"These women I am obliged to ogle are now likely at the point in their lives where the repercussions of this particular photo shoot are catching up with them. Maybe they have regrets, hell, maybe they have kids. Maybe one day their child will need to give a sperm sample, be given an ancient copy of Jugg-O-Mat and find their mother with a strange man's member overtly posed inside her mouth." My imagination started to get the best of me in the opposite way it was intended; I found it rather ironic that when I'm doing homework I find myself acutely distracted by thoughts of sex and my easy access to pornography, and yet here I am actually given the task of masturbating and my mind is anywhere but. I began to contemplate all the wrong things about the supposed work relationship between Krystal McBigSex and a detached phallus: How can this company possibly sustain itself if their employees are constantly fucking? Why on earth is there a shower in the middle of a boardroom? Most importantly, why do they insist on calling it a "member"? Is it part of some secret dick club I'm not aware of? How is that sexy at all? It makes the penis sound like a malignant tumor. Distracted by these unsexy contemplations, I realized duty calls, thus I soon found myself with a plastic tube filled with progress.

Afterwards, I sat in the conference eating complimentary Frosted Flakes while watching Sesame Street. Oddly enough, as the television turns on so does a radio, which switches stations as you switch TV channels. I don't know what it is exactly about hospitals or dentists offices and lite rock; I understand it's intended to be something soft and innocuous to put patients at ease, but I just get nervous and irritable when listening to it. I mean, come on, Cher's "Do You Believe In Life After Love?" I didn't know there was a place where that song still existed, but I certainly don't want it ringing in the ears of someone who's about to put a drill in my mouth. As I watched Count Van Count lip sync "I Can Feel It Coming in the Air Tonight" as a googly-eyed number 11 raced rampantly across the screen, I realized this was kind of an interesting day.

Adroitness In Frivolity

I am currently part of another dietary study where they pay me money. I have to refrain from eating soy products so they can test some supplement thing on me and check my isoflavonitory-propoloids so that old people don't get cancer. Or something. I figured this was another opportunity at easy money, as my last stint as an amino-acid study participant proved to be quite profitable. I've been since keeping my eyes peeled for more opportunities and stumbled upon this Do-Soy project. I figured I'd eat some Toffutti Cuties, spit in a dixie cup and then express my feelings through interpretive dance and walk out of there $100 richer. What I failed to realize is that this one is actually more work than I expected. Here are the steps:

• Abstain from soy products during the length of the study

Not really a huge deal for most people who are carniverous, but I started to realize that under this circumstance the previously obvious answer to "Do you want some motherfucking soy sauce???" is now "Uh, I guess I should refrain from injesting that" instead of the obvious "FUCK YEAH I DOES".

• Keep a record of your diet during the study

Also, not a really big thing, but suddenly I'm faced with all these issues. How many cups of milk did I put on my Corn Chex? How do I accurately gauge the amount of fondu I ate last night? Will the doctors judge me for drinking seven beers while eating fried food? How will it feel to look back on this log and realize my eating habits are embarrassing enough to include those Hostess pink snowball things? What the hell are those called, anyway? Sno-Balls? How does taking away the W make this a new and engaging product? So many questions...

• Take a supplement with food three times daily

I tend to distrust anything with more than three syllables. Once words get into that range, they get scary and unsettling. This supplement contains syllables outside of my comfort level. I have to put into my body something which sounds vaguely like the pseudo-science of the Spiderman animated series, and we've all seen the end results of much of the exploits of superheroic science. (Hint: Destruction on a large scale or total moral overhaul)
The question becomes not so much "Will I get cancer?" as "What kind of cancer will I get?" and "What parts of me will fall off?"

• Piss in these big orange containers

I will have to collect my "voids", as they are so undemotically referred, for reference in the study. A 24 urine collection isn't too much work, per se, but to have to drag around a lunchbag full of refrigerated piss with me in public is going to be a bit odd. Knowing me, this whole thing will turn into some sort of zany Dane Cook movie involving pratfalls and mistaken orange juice. And someones grandma. Having cancer.

• Give a sperm sample; refrain from ejaculation three days prior

This is the tough one. I knew there was going to be a sperm sample involved, one of those instances where they give you a magazine and wink at you and say "You know what to do!" and you share this sort of awkward look where the two of you realize that you will be jerking off within earshot. That's no big deal. But not ejaculating for three days? Starting on a Friday? My weekend is prime ejaculating time! That's when I get all my best ejaculating done! They scheduled this so poorly. If I had to stop ejaculating on Tuesday, this would not be a huge deal because I'm so distracted by my non-ejaculatory prospects. But the weekend was made for ejaculating! What do you think the Lord did on the seventh day after creating the universe? I know three days is really not that long, but I have to do it two weekends in a row. Though this will cramp my style, I guess it at least won't cramp my wrist.

• Sample of prostatic fluid obtained

A dude will stick his fingers in my butt. The study attempted to waylay worries involved therein by stating that the man has 30 years experience sticking his fingers in peoples butts. I don't know exactly if that makes me feel more or less comfortable. I'm sure he'll be gentle, light a candle, put on some smooth jazz and remind me I'm the only one for him... Still, there always the thought of a hirsute truck driver syphening gas from an oil tanker... We'll have to see how this goes, but hopefully I can get a magazine for this too.

All this plus blood samples and getting up early in the morning... I'm starting to think this isn't worth $100. It's a lot of work, and I hate work. Since when do people work for money? Oh well, I'm just gonna stick it out and see what comes. Chances are they'll discover I've got a great prostate gland for taking samples, and suddenly every research assistant and amateur filmmaker in town is going to want some of the action. With luck, my ass could be a cash cow and I'll never have to lift a finger again; there'll be plenty lifted and prodding about for me.