My wife and I are still shooting for a child. Problem is, I seem to be shooting blanks. I called Dr. Klope to schedule a sperm count, which always struck me as tedious work. Can you see the poor guy slouched over the microscope?

"1,634 ... 1,635 ... no, wait, I already counted that one..."

Dr. Klope had one opening, eight a.m., which is entirely too early for sperm. A man can wake up with driftwood on his beach, but that doesn't mean he's ready to build a fire. It's usually noon before I can manage a French kiss.

I arrived at Klope's office, where I was received by a male nurse, thank God. He gave me a sterile cup (keyword: sterile), led me to the bathroom, and, without so much as leaving a Victoria Secret catalog, was on his way.

In the early days, when I first started experimenting with sperm collection, it didn't take much. The cover of National Geographic would do just fine. But these days I need visual aid, audio, a back story.

I poked around the room but found only medical pamphlets. Even in my freakiest moments, anatomy charts won't cut it. I was left to my imagination, where I luckily uncovered a memory from New Year's Eve, 2002. I won't go into details, but chances are that I will have to address them in the afterlife.

Still waiting on the results from my test. I'm sure they're almost ready: "6,234 ... 6,235 ..."