When I was a teenage male, it was very difficult to obtain condoms, because you had to buy them at the drugstore from the Condom Lady, who was about 65 and looked like your grandmother only more moral. She had a photographic memory so she knew exactly who you were, and as soon as you left the store, she would dial a special number that would connect her with a gigantic loudspeaker system so she could announce to your parents and your teachers and everybody in your church or synagogue and people on the street that you had just bought condoms. Now they sell condoms right out in the open on display racks, just like breath mints or something, and the Condom Lady has switched over to selling Penthouse magazine to middle-aged businessmen at the airport.

For older males, the most effective form of birth control is the vasectomy, which is a simple surgical procedure that can be done right in your doctor’s office. Notice I say your doctor’s office. I myself would insist on having it done at the Mayo Clinic surrounded by a team of several dozen crackerjack surgeons and leaders of all the world’s major religious groups. I don’t take any chances with so-called minor surgical procedures, because the last one I had was when the dentist took my wisdom teeth out, and subsequently I almost bled to death in the carpet department at Sears.

The way I understand it, what happens in a vasectomy is they tie some kind of medical knot in the male conduit so the sperm can’t get through. Of course, this leads to the obvious question, which is: Won’t the sperm back up? Will these poor pathetic males someday explode like water balloons, spewing sperm all over and possibly ruining an important sales presentation? I say the American Medical Association ought to get the hell off the golf course and answer this question before the public becomes needlessly alarmed.