Being that I'm female, I've never given much thought to the problematic nature of "outdoor plumbing" - so to speak. However, through my various adventures in cohabitating with males, it has come to my attention that they, in general, have given the issue some thought. A LOT of thought. Entire Speedo-loads of thought.
The Junk (that being the preferred terminology 'round these parts, for the collective manly Parts) is a high-maintenance beast. It can be sweaty, achy, itchy, too hot, too cold, too hairy, compressed, confined, constricted, grazed, bumped, zippered, sat on or crushed betwixt the thighs. It can hang on the wrong side. The troops can become separated. Mosquitoes can attack.
I think if you cobbled it all together, men spend something on the order of hundreds of hours on itching, bitching, whining, scratching and general assorted rearrangement activities.
And then! If they should so deign to take their reproductive potential into their own hands and get fixed, by golly it's a whole new ballgame (oh yeah, I totally meant that): the procedure must be rehashed at least thrice monthly, in addition to regularly scheduled activities as described above. I've discovered I can usually make DH shut up about his "terrible ordeal" by airing my various feminine trump cards (there are so many to choose from - I find "giving birth" is an excellent standby), but if you bring something up often enough it's a statistical certainty that the topic will eventually collide with another feminine trump card I like to call hormonally-induced rage. Or, "Fuck Off Already with the Vasectomy Stories!" for short.
So, yeah, I snapped a little. What is with the stupid snip stories, anyways? How many frigging permutations of the same locally-anaesthetized two minutes of someone's life can there possibly be? And for the love of all things dangly, why?
Frankly, we may never know for sure, but one thing is certain:
And if those things are just going to keep getting longer, I doubt they're going to get any less annoying with age.