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Well, that was a disappointing urination

I shook twice. That’s all it should take. Once for necessity and a second time for good luck. That’s all a man should need. Yet it appears I needed more. It appears that the first two shakes were just the pre-game, and not the main event. It appears that my jeans now have a few drops of pee on them.

It’s happened to all of us at least a few times, but a man can’t publicly admit to such a thing. This world is a fragile place, and with a shocking secret like that, who knows how society would react? My friends would likely desert me. Former lovers would stop rejoicing to everyone about my totally rad sex moves. My parents would have me digitally removed from all their family photos. There’s no room in the family for someone with urine on their pants. Those drops might as well be on my soul.

My pants will dry on their own in a few minutes, but I can’t hide out in this godforsaken place for that long. There’s a guy in one of the stalls who’s smokin’ me out with all the fumes he’s producing in there. I have to make a move, but I can’t hit the streets like this. No sir. I need to come up with a “Plan B”.

Should I try to dry it with paper towels? I’ve tried that before. It solves nothing and destroys the paper towel beyond recognition, leaving little scraps of it behind on your crotch. Then you walk out and you’re the guy who peed himself and tried to rub it out with paper. You’ll be a goddamn fool for the rest of your life.

I could attempt to dry it with the electric hand dryer, but it’s a gutsy move. In order to get close enough to dry yourself, you have to use the counter for leverage and hoist your groin up to the machine. God help you if you get too close. You’ll burn your junk. You’ll burn it real good. No more lazy days in the hammock for you, mister. Your junk will have grill marks on it, and your wife will take the hammock with her when she divorces you. “I don’t eat at Burger King,” she’ll say. Then she’ll walk out that door and eat at every McDonald’s in town.

Worse yet, if someone walks in and sees you in that ridiculous position – or if the beast in the stall gets bored of curling the wallpaper and comes out to wash his hands – then it will all blow up in your face. You’ll either have to walk out silently in shame, or worse yet, attempt to explain to a stranger in the restroom that you pissed yourself and then tried to dry it with some godless machine.

Word will spread quickly. “I heard Todd caught Paul trying to jerk off with the electric hand dryer,” they’ll say. “He had his dong halfway up it.” The police will start coming around, asking questions. Before you know it, you’ll be on a sex offender list. Unlawful act with a restroom robot. Ten to twenty months in the slammer. Sure, they’ll overturn that law someday, but not nearly soon enough.

How the hell did I get into this predicament? Is this what happens when men get old? Is misplaced urine the first sign of human decay? I’m only 34 years old. When I’m 60, will I have to do a handstand at the urinal to ensure that my pants stay dry? Will other parts of me start leaking like Edward Snowden?

Get out of there, Snowden! That urine is collected for the government! The public doesn’t need to know! Eh. That’s the last time I hire a high school dropout to manage my peecrets. Pee-crets? Secret peecrets? I’m sure one of those is funny. I’ll just leave them all there.

I may just give up all this freestyle micturating and buy one of those catheters all the geriatrics are raving about. No muss, no fuss. It would be a great item for Comic Con this week, assuming no one physically bumps into me. It could also be useful as a teaching tool, because if someone does bump into me, they’ll learn really quickly not to do it again.

A catheter would also work great for self defense. If you’re walking down a dark alleyway at night, There are few things I can think of that would scare away an attacker faster than the victim ripping a bag of warm urine off their leg and lobbing it at them like a grenade. It’s even the same general motion: Rip the top off and chuck it.

Or I could just take the simpler, more rational route and shake three times at the urinal instead of twice. I might be occasionally accused of “having a party”, but who doesn’t like to attend parties? Parties are fun. This particular party is better attended solo than with a group, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.


 One Response to “Well, that was a disappointing urination”

  1. John says:

    Two suggestions:
    – Wear dark blue trousers.
    – After age 60 never, ever trust a fart!

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