|
|
November 29th, 2002
Not being a doctor, or a dream expert, or a water sports enthusiast, I don't know if this is common or not, but I frequently have dreams where I really really have to pee.
When I have these dreams, I am, in reality needing to take a whiz like a drunken rhino, but in order to prevent me from letting loose and drowning myself in my sleep, my brain has taken it upon itself to intervene in the bladder's nocturnal affairs.
Now normally this mechanism manifests itself in a simple dream where I really have to go, but I can't find a bathroom around. Or I can find a bathroom, but it's locked, or something to that effect.
Last night, however, I don't know if I was over-unconscious from too much Thanksgiving tofurkey or what, but the entire night was a knee-buckling, urethra-straining, no-holds-barred throwdown between my subconscious and my urinary tract. Go get yourself a tall glass of lemonade and a sponge, and then sit back and listen to my...
By Marcus
It starts out innocently enough. I'm in some featureless waiting room with off-gray walls, tastefully bland framed watercolors of flowers, and gray chairs constructed of tubular metal, cheap foam, and a durable, lite-burlap kind of material. As I sit in this room, waiting patiently for some unknown event I realize the inevitable.
I have to pee.
Even in my dreams, I'm a prissy little girl, so rather than dirtying my dainty little hands, I put the toe of my sneaker under the lid and tried to lift it up. Much to my bewilderment, it didn't move.
I pulled my leg up harder, but still, the lid wouldn't budge. My first instinct was to give up and just go later. The gentle pressure sitting on my bladder, however, convinced me to become a little bolder in my storming of the bowl.
I took a closer look at the locked john, and was surprised to see how pristine it looked. The porcelain was a perfectly, gleaming, supermodel-teeth white. In fact, the whole bathroom was spotless. If there had been bubble wrap on the floor, I could have reasonably assumed that I was the first person to use this bathroom since it had been delivered and installed.
As such, I felt confident enough to wrap my skinny fingers under the lid and give it a tug.
Nothing.
I squatted down, balanced on my heels, and gave a mighty upward heave with all of my weight, hoping to dislodge this barrier to my bladder functions. Shockingly, the lid did not twitch at this mighty wrenching, but instead the entire toilet broke free of its moorings and came off the floor in my hands.
In a shocked, snap bit of reasoning, I quickly slammed the bowl back down in an effort to head off the enormous gusher of dirty water that would begin spraying from every severed pipe, as my years of teen comedy movie watching has taught me it instantly would. Luckily for me, not a drop was spilled.
Relieved, but not relieved, I took a closer look at this cursed piece of plumbing that had been vexing me so. It turned out that the entire fixture: bowl, tank, seat, and lid, were all one contiguous piece of porcelain. No breaks, no hinges, no hope of proper usage, under any circumstances, ever.
With a heavy and sloshing bladder, I turned to leave the room in defeat. Behind the door I noticed something that I had failed to notice before.
A urinal.
By the time I reached it, the bottom of the urinal was at the same height as my chin. It had one of those plastic triangle things in it that had "Say no to drugs" printed on it. I was briefly reminded of something wise that Timb the Enchanter once told me. He said, "Why do they write 'Say no to drugs' in the bottom of the urinal? Where you'll piss on it? What kind of a message is that? Is it trying to get me to not do drugs, because that's what it says, or am I supposed to do drugs, as I am urinating on the sentiment of doing otherwise?"
This philosophical musing was cut short by the liquidy angst of my nether regions. Putting my knowledge of wacko physics to use, I quickly backed away from the wall. As I did, as expected, the urinal lowered. A quick step forward, just for science, revealed what I already knew, as the bowl scooted back up the wall like a giant white cockroach.
A new plan emerged. I really really had to go. There was some significant water pressure building in the ol' pipes. The inside of my head turned into one of those Tom and Jerry cartoons where Tom is drawing out elaborate projectile physics equations with a white pencil on a comical blueprint. Could I find a distance where the urinal was low enough that I could effectively blast my way into it from across the room?
Unfortunately for fans of extreme fluid dynamics, I couldn't. To get the urinal to about waist height, I had to be a good 25 feet away from it. I mean, damn. Maybe if I had just drank a two liter of SURGE I coulda got that kind of loft, but not today. It would have only ended in the kind of humiliation that features ruined pants and a lot of mopping and tears.
So I ran out of the restroom, hoping to find another that wasn't so hostile. Across the street there was a typical looking art studio. It had lots of cheap wooden furniture covered with spatters of paint and plaster, and stacks of unsold paintings leaning against the wall.
Working in this typical art studio was a typical artist. He was a tall, gauntly, shaggy haired fellow in loose fitting clothes. He smelled. I asked him if I could use his restroom. Urgently.
"Aww, no man. I don't have a bathroom here."
Desperate times called for desperate measures, I suppose. At any rate, the idea of taking a whiz anywhere sounded pretty good to me. I wasn't really feeling very picky. So I ran out the back of the studio into the alley. Sure enough, sitting right on the edge of this lush, green, overexposure-lit park was this huge menacing pile of jagged stained glass and rusted steel. My thoughts turned to the lady from that Thanksgiving cell phone commercial, who looks doubtfully at the raw turkey and inquires...
"You want me to put my what, in the what what?"
Just then, a group of sweet old ladies emerged from the park. They were wearing clean pink jogging suits, and little white sneakers that matched their white perms. They came power walking down the sunflower lined path, happily laughing and chattering to each other about cookies and "General Hospital."
Then they noticed me. All at once, like a great hushed geriatric wave of anticipation. And there I was, standing there awkwardly hunched over with every abdominal muscle crunched against the approaching tide, hands on my open belt buckle.
They stared at me, and I stared back. It was like the whole world was paused except for the tell tale crisis thermometer rising in my urethra. They stared at me, I stared back.
Finally, one of the old ladies broke the silence. Rather, she didn't. Everything remained totally soundless as the one grandma leaned to the other, and mouthed the horrified words, "Oh dear. He's not going to do what I think he's going to do, is he?"
I cracked first. Mom, you brought me up right. I buckled my belt and took off through the park. I ran and ran in that way that you run, knowing that it's only the motion of your legs that's keeping the seal intact, and the second that you stop, you had better be over something waterproof.
I came to a stylish blue split level house. There seemed to be a lot of random objects laying around the yard and the garage, and there were lots of casually well dressed white people milling around.
"Garage sale?" he questioned, over the top of a lemonade glass.
I took a quick look around. Okay, so nothing had a price on it, and sure, all of these yuppies were holding drinks and talking and laughing.
"Nice party," I said in a strained voice, completely failing at sounding casual, "Okay if I use the bathroom then?"
The thin blonde stranger looked me up and down, sizing me up, and with an accusatory glare drawled, "Ooooookay, but no mini-morging in there!"
I thanked him and took off sprinting in the direction he pointed with the all the fury of the mighty Colorado surging through my pelvis. In the brief second that elapsed before I reached the pastel green and white, farmhouse style bathroom door, thoughts on "mini-morging" raced through my head.
What in the holy hell was "mini-morging?" Is that like, playing a tiny electronic synthesizer? I guess that would be "mini-mooging." Or like dead midgets? "Mini-morgueing?" A shot of rum and Coke? "Mini-Morgan?" The Mini-Morphin' Power Rangers?
I had no idea what he meant by "mini-morging," but at any rate, I knew he was probably talking about whackin' off.
I entered the Martha-Stewart-Target style powder pastel colored bathroom and slammed the door behind me. I had already reached the head by the time I realized that in my hasty closure, the heavy antique hardware of the door hadn't latched, and the door had bounced open again. I took two giant, gazelle-like strides to the door and pushed it shut gently. Again, it slowly swung open as soon as I took my hand off it.
With a furious urethra clench that sent shivers all the way to my toes, and a deep clarifying breath, I gently pushed the door shut, and turned the white pearl handle on the lock. I pulled my hands away from the door with slow uncertainty... and it stayed closed! Rapture!
I leapt back over to the awaiting bowl only to find an awkward architectural anomaly. The wall in front of the toilet was only about an inch and a half away from the edge of the rim. There was absolutely no room to position oneself between the wall and the john.
But to the left of the toilet, where I was currently pondering my situation as hot steam was beginning to rise from my crotch, there was plenty of standing room. The question quickly became thus: In this over stimulated state, just how well could I be expected to hit my target from an unorthodox and untested approach vector?
Again the abacus of my mind went into action. "Divided by .75 in length, added to width, accounting for increased, firehose like pressurization..."
A quick look at the soft, whispy, almost angora like, super absorbent looking white shag carpet surrounding the toilet told me that these hasty calculations were too great a risk. I decided to straddle the bowl and try to shoot straight down, like Luke Skywalker blowing up the Death Star.
Struggling against the constrictive swelling, I once again wrestled my belt open only to feel a sharp stabbing pain in my left thigh. A huge orange cat had appeared out of nowhere, and was standing at my side on his back legs, front claws firmly planted in my leg meat. Considering the potty emergency, my body must have triaged the pain of the cat far enough down the list for it to be a non-issue. The only sense of danger running though my mind was to the effect of, "Whoa! I can't pee like this! That cat will totally shred my weenis!"
I reached under the angry kitty's belly and gently tossed it across the room.
I grabbed the little demon firmly around its ribs with one hand, and as it clawed and scratched my forearm with wild abandon, I sprung over to the door, unlocked it, and in a gesture like throwing a bowling ball, sent the screaming cat sliding down the hall on the hardwood floor.
Feeling that the Peeometer had risen to 10 units past critical, I slammed the door, locked it, and jumped astride the bowl, knowing that this was my last chance. It was now or never. The pressure and pain in my excretory system was indescribable. It felt as if all the liquid of Niagara Falls had already left the safe harbor of the bladder, and was rushing with all its destructive power out of the body, whether the gates were open or not. With one Hollywood-like double windmill arm swing, I tore my belt out of its loops and popped the top button off of my jeans.
To my abject horror, the fly had disappeared from my pants.
Somehow before the stream hit the floodgates, I woke up in a cold sweat, shaking in the strain of muscles stressed to the point of maintaining a watertight seal. I bounded to the real, functional bathroom and let fly with the kind of spray that gardeners use to tear rotten leaves off the driveway in the spring.
Six and a half minutes later, the nightmare had ended. I stood shivering in my miraculously dry pajamas, feeling the tingles of my over-tightened abdominal muscles slowly relaxing back into their doughy, pouchy places of rest.
I guess if there's one thing that I'm thankful for this Thanksgiving more than anything else, it would be that I didn't eat any asparagus that day.
All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com. Boy is it ever November 29th!
|
So I make my way to the conveniently located restroom. I walk up to the toilet, and think to myself, "That's peculiar. I've never seen a public toilet with a lid before."
Overjoyed, I ran across the room, making the appropriate initial preparations to the belt and zipper for immediate urinary distribution. The distance between one side of the shimmering restroom and the other seemed to grow with every forward step I took. As if this peculiarity wasn't enough, the same freaky fun house effect that was warping my steps was also hauling the urinal skyward.
With the sense of exigency and clouded judgment that only a gallon and a half of hot, malcontent liquid human waste could produce, I went for my zipper, giving the pile a cursory examination for signs of the artist's spilled willie blood. Not seeing any, I was lulled into a sense of false security and decided to go for it, against my better judgment.
I ran up to a be-khakied man with a sweater tied around his neck, and pleaded, "I'll buy something at your garage sale if you let me use your bathroom!"
Outside the door, a girl who looked like Parker Posey in a khaki skirt and a pink sweater noticed me. Her pale face was framed by her short dark bob hair, and she gave me this little shrugging smile like, "That darn door! Isn't it always the way?"
No sooner had I returned to my fly, than this feisty feline had returned to my thigh. Leaping from nowhere, and letting loose one of those face-stretching, eye-squinting, heart-stopping hiss-yowl things from hell, the monster was once again stuck in my leg. This time with all four feet.
