A Golfing Fiasco and Tales of Frantic Urination
Thanks to everyone who downloaded and read A Convenience Story over the weekend. I hope you enjoyed it. And thanks, especially, to the folks who helped me promote the eBook, via Twitter and Facebook. I hoist a frosty glass of what’ll eventually kill me in your honor!
If you don’t have your copy yet, what in the finger-snapping heck are you waiting for? Grab it now, right this very minute. Here’s your link.
I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but our upstairs crapatorium still isn’t finished. Today, supposedly. On Sunday the contractor said he was going to pull a late-nighter, and get it finished “no matter what.” And around 5 o’clock he packed up his stuff, and went home.
Hey, your guess is as good as mine…
Yes, I sure am glad the guy’s not working by the hour, because he doesn’t exactly move like Mrs. Howell on radioactive beets. But he’s doing a good job, as far as I can tell.
It’s looking really good up there. In fact, we’ll probably be loading up on the Starbucks coffee and Sunkist orange drink, so we’ll be forced to use the room more often. I can hear the Secrets now, “Ahhhh, he got to have an upstairs assplosion last time! It’s my turn now!!”
Hopefully I’ll be telling you it’s completed in tomorrow’s update. But I doubt it. I think the guy’s a member of our family now; I think he lives here, I’m just not sure.
On Thursday I took the younger Secret golfing, and it was pretty much a fiasco.
I insisted we go to a little Par 3 course, not far from our house. It’s usually abandoned, or nearly-abandoned, and the holes are so short it’s hard to get into any real trouble – even for me. You can basically use a 7-iron and a putter, and nothing else. It’s as close to real golf as I’m comfortable with.
There was another fat man and son playing two or three holes ahead of us, but we were far enough apart so as to avoid awkward tension. We pretty much had the whole place to ourselves.
And do you ever notice that when you go bowling, or play golf after not having done so in a long time, you usually do really well in the beginning? It’s true. I bowl maybe one time per year, usually three games, and I always start out like a pro. Then the wheels fly off.
Same thing with golf. I seriously thought I’d hit a hole-in-one on Thursday, with my very first swing. The ball landed about two feet from the flag, and rolled to within inches of it. I couldn’t believe what was happening before me.
But it went downhill from there, fast.
On the second hole, I think, I bent over to pick up a ball, and the button on my shorts came rocketing off. (I’m not sure where it finally ended up, I’m just thankful my son wasn’t blinded.) And my pants fell down roughly a half-dozen times before we went home.
Usually you can zip up a pair of pants without a button and ratchet the little tab over, and it’ll hold. But these were shorts made of some kind of heavy material, and I couldn’t get the tab to do its duty. And almost every time I teed-off I was left standing there in my underwear, my shorts bunched around my ankles. I thought the Secret was going to die laughing.
Also there were roughly 100 million gnats on that golf course, and I had to pee like Man O’ War during the entire game. I really shouldn’t have polished off that McDonald’s sweet tea while we were driving…
I seriously considered sneaking off into the woods, letting go of my shorts, and relieving myself into a patch of poison ivy. But I was convinced the course was loaded with surveillance cameras, and they were already laughing and watching our every move, because of my Buster Keaton pants.
And how would I explain to Toney, that while she was out of town our son was taken into temporary custody by the state, after I was arrested on a public urination rap? It wasn’t really a conversation I wanted to have…
So, I didn’t have a very good time, to tell you the truth. Those shorts were so damn heavy they just wanted to be down. They were like theater curtains. I started playing with my legs spread completely apart, so the pants couldn’t physically move, but I was so low to the ground I needed to choke up on my club.
It was a pitiful display.
When we finally finished I almost ripped the door off the pro shop, and hollered, “BATHROOM! Where’s the bathroom?!” Mr. Polo Shirt pointed in a general direction, and I was gone before he could actually say anything.
And I’m pretty sure I power-etched a deep groove in their porcelain, stripped that shit all the way down to raw steel. But that’s their problem; I’m a very busy man.
Do you have any “needing to pee with a powerful urgency” stories to tell? I can think of two more, right off the top of my head…
A million years ago I was driving to a picnic with a girlfriend, and she needed to go. Right now. But we were on country roads, and she wasn’t too receptive to the idea of squatting behind a bush. She wanted me to try to find a gas station, or a diner, or something.
So we kept driving, and saw nothing but cows and barns. Eventually she started freaking out a little, and was almost speaking in tongues.
Then she did something I’ll never forget… She turned around and opened the cooler, which was on the backseat. And she grabbed a bottle of Heinz ketchup, wedged it tight between her legs, and held onto the neck with both hands like she was trying to land a damaged airplane.
I knew better than to make any comments about this curious turn of events, but plenty of them were flying around inside my head. We finally found an old filling station, straight out of 1952, and she tossed her ketchup bottle aside and went running.
And on the last day of school in 11th grade (I think), I needed to visit a urinal in the worst way. But I happened to be in a class led by a woman who hated me, and she told me to sit down and shut up when I asked if I could be excused.
Of course it kept getting worse and worse, and I could feel my inner organs beginning to ache. And not just my bladder, either. I’m talking lungs, etc.
Then I started seeing spots, and my dead grandfather was there…
Screw this, I thought, and walked out the door. Mrs. W. hollered, all frantic and shrill, “Jeff, what do you think you’re doing?! I didn’t say you could leave this classroom!!!” and that sort of thing.
When I returned, five minutes later, she said in front of the whole class, “Jeff Kay, what are you ON?!”
Man, I hated that woman, and the feeling was completely mutual. I should’ve just walked to the front of her class, taken it out, and relieved the pressure while doing The Twist. Heh.
And that’s gonna do it for today, children. If you have any stories along those lines, we need to hear them without hesitation. Use the comments section below.
Oh, and one more thing before I go… I’d like to start a gallery of Surf Reporters rocking the new shirt. Please send me a photo, and I’ll post it at the site. It can be a regular snapshot, or get creative with it, whatever. Send it to jeff (at) thewvsr dotcom.
And good God, I just read Metten’s latest at Mockable… Don’t miss it! I’m still laughing. A perfect companion piece to today’s update!
I’ll see you guys tomorrow.
Filed under: Daily
Yep.
Nope.
second, i think
I almost never drink much of any liquid before I go on the road, or much of anywhere, because I have gotten myself into so many jams that way. Once it ended in an outhouse (yes, an outhouse) outside of a shack in rural Louisiana. I have learned my lesson!
Incidently, they make portable urine containers for women, called a “she-wee” lol. My fiancee thinks that is the funniest thing ever and keeps threatening to buy me one. I would look up the link but I am at work… ahem… can’t set off any sensors here if you know what I mean.
My ex-husband had an emergency poo incident on his way home from work once, at night when everything was closed. He ended up crapping behind a dumpster at Kohl’s! And of course, a passing cop saw him and cited him
He came home holding ruined pants and crying. At the time I felt bad for him… but now it is just funny.
Wow – top 10!
#6 and good bye…
Buster Keaton pants! HA!
I’ve got a cyst on my kidney, so I’m all about frequent urination. Just about every outing is fraught with concern about where the nearest bathroom is. But as far as a memorable near-to-exploding situation, I was also in a classroom. Specifically an art history class, in the middle of the room, during a slide presentation.
I liked the teacher but you were simply not allowed to stand up and walk out, particularly if you were situated where it would cause the largest commotion, as was I. I suppose nowadays I’d just say “screw you” and leave, but back then I was a model pupil. So during the entire lecture on post-impressionism there was a lot of leg-crossing, full body twitching, and beating of fists upon my notebook. By the time we got to Van Gogh, “Starry Night” was looking particularly swirly as my eyeballs were practically floating.
Then she let us take a break and I charged from the class to the nearest bathroom, which was a single toilet located behind a thin, shuttered door. I’m sure everyone heard me pissing like a race horse for a good five minutes (it kept coming and coming and coming), but man, the relief when it was all over with remains unmatched to this day.
Oh, and here’s an entirely relevant Animaniacs episode to add to the mix:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KhMdG5GrgvA
Aw crap, it wasn’t the whole episode! Let’s try that again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TW1Pr9bnn2Q&NR=1
Lets just say the taking a piss out the backside of CH46 in mid flight dressed in full flight gear takes on a whole new meaning to back splash and I will leave you to ponder that one. Peace out…
Good Afternoon Surf Reporters…….
All my urgent need to go now stories involve interstate travel. The first signs of discomfort usually appear about 5 miles past the last rest stop.
Then, the painful countdown of “miles to go” to the next area. Miles to go, miles to go, miles to go. Those words don’t exactly help when you need to go.
I think only once I actually pulled off to the berm and beelined it for the trees. I was always fearful the state po-po would pull up behind the car and I’d have some ’splaining to do.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve peed behind bushes. In my youth I didn’t care much about who saw me relieving myself and would brace myself on the bumper of my Chevy Chevette and let loose. I think there is photographic evidence of at least one such incident. I’m waiting for the negatives and photo paper to deteriorate enough so as to make my face unrecognizable. Only then can I run for public office. Oh, and I’ll admit to not always having made it in time. (Yeah, despite dogged determination and the twisty-legged sideways crab dance, I’ve pissed my pants a few times. What of it?)
My sister is the all-time queen of having to go, except she has Crohn’s disease and it’s more lethal then a little urine. Before she had surgery, she knew every public toilet between here to Timbuktu. Once, when she was rushing to get the kids to school and get home to the bathroom, she rear-ended a car. The airbag deployed, her bowels evacuated, and the force of the airbag shattered her elbow as she braced for impact.. So she wrapped a sweatshirt around her waist, pretended everything was fine, and refused medical treatment at the scene because she was too embarrassed at having crapped herself. She then called my mother to come pick her and the kids up. At home, my sister realized she was unable to clean herself up alone due to the state of her elbow and had to ask my mother for help just to complete the humiliation. And then my mother took her to the ER. After 5 days in the hospital, my sister is now the proud owner of an 8″ scar, 11 screws, some wire and a metal plate holding her elbow together. The morphine…oh yes… the morphine, she says, was fabulous while it lasted.
I was on vacation in Wyoming about 20 years ago, driving up through the Bighorn Mountains to Powder River Pass. I think I had stopped at a Dairy Queen in Buffalo, WY for lunch earlier, and so had sucked down a large Pepsi as well as a giant blackberry malt. I really thought there was a rest stop at the top of the pass (this was not an interstate) but there was merely a pull-out, big enough for maybe 3 or 4 cars. Thankfully there was no one else there because I’d been rockin’ in my seat for the last half hour and I had to go BAD. Trouble was there was about a 40 mile-per-hour wind howling through the pass. I aimed upwind but the wind whipped it around to my face, my clothes, inside the car (I was standing – futiley – with my back toward the open car door) – you name it.
Cheers!
wow. this update + mockable = me on the throne all day. yikes.
bunker cam – real shot circa 1985?
is that Jimmy Hoffa in a silk suit doing the Twist in the header photo?
I’m male, so the world is my washroom, but my wife and female friends provide me with endless amounts or urinary amusement.
Highlights include trying to find a public washroom in Paris, the wife squatting in poison ivy while driving around Lake Nippising, having to stop two or three times while driving to Toronto (an hour and a half drive), etc.
A few years back, after leaving a work function and deciding to take the “back way home”, I felt a sharp pain. I was in the middle of no where and really didn’t have any idea of where I was going. I kept telling myself that I could make it and kept driving. A few minutes later, realizing that I wasn’t going to make it, I started looking for the next best spot to doo down. It was dark and I was oin back country so finding a spot shouldn’t have been a problem, right? I swear, I couldn’t find the first patch of woods, field, rose bush, or traffic cone to crap behind.
I started getting nervous when I spotted a rual VFD on the side of the road. There was a guy out front washing his Camero. I wheeled into the parkign lot, whipped open the door, and started walking at a fast pace toward the fire department and away from the guy. I said “bathroom”? He just pointed and said “in the back”.
We all know what happened. No big deal. Wiping the sweat from my brow and existing the building, I thanked the man for his facilities. He said “no problem. I’ve been there before and knew exactly what was going on”.
Small World.
P.S. Love the Bunker Cam! That’s the photo that gave birth to the internet tough guy meme!
http://api.ning.com/files/CN3s74alOU6l3KVZdTsjMbtxoSbK8kTDoHnOwsgFY9AwjEk-kwkjViWrFLdNnD303ImywmEx9auGZWjRlfyM**vknhSgCDPI/InternetToughGuy.jpg
I’m crying in my cube….THANK YOU JEFF KAY!
“Buster Keaton pants’ got me right on the funny bone. No stopping after that. Classic.
I had to look up the “shewee” and I don’t like it one bit. It’s essentially a prostetic penis. Click on “buy online” and check out the accessories.
http://www.shewee.ca/
Our stepdad used to take us on long road trips and refuse to pull over. We were in the Ford LTD on the way to the Alamo one time and my younger brother kept saying he had to pee. They told him to lay down to take some of the pressure off, because pulling over and letting him piss was out of the question.
He layed down and moaned for a while and I suddenly decided to push on his abdomen. I have no idea why, just to be mean I guess. He pissed all over himself. We finally stopped at a K-Mart so stepdad could go in and buy him some new $5 jeans, the soiled ones went into the massive trunk.
I’m going to go out in the back yard and pee…just because…:-)
happy Monday…ugh
I’m going to check Youtube to see if anyone posted any videos with the following tags:
Golf
Shorts
Falling
Ankles
Underwear
Be right back.
Well, I normally don’t get to comment on your musings, Jeff, since I’m living in Asia, but I’m up at the right time of night, and I have a story to tell, so here goes:
A friend of mine in high school and I went out drinking. That’s illegal, as we all know, but John Adams did it when he was at Eaton(?), so why can’t I (!?). Well, the next day, we’d decided to go to his ‘land’ near Huntsville, Texas (we lived in Houston), so we had a one hour ride ahead of us. We did the requisites: loaded the four-wheeler in the back of the F-150 Extended Cab, took far, FAR, too many guns and ammunition into the cab, and set off.
“Where’ll y’all going?” his mother yelled from the kitchen window. “We’re going to Huntsville to play ‘Four Wheel and Shoot,” we replied. “What? Did you say ‘Four Wheel and Shoot?” she said. “No, we said, ‘Four Wheel and Boot.”
“Oh, okay. Have a good time then. Wait a second, that makes no sen-”
And with that, my friend gunned the truck in reverse out of the driveway, loaded with 17-year-old boys, rifles from calibers that kill squirrels to mammoths, and ordinance. Lots of ordinance. We were hung over, to boot.
Well, we got out onto the I-45, the interstate that connects Houston to Huntsville and eventually Dallas (and then, I don’t know, like, Vancouver or somewhere?) and the 64-ounce Dr. Peppers we’d ingested on the way started to take their toll. Much like your I-80 (I think?) they like to do construction on I-45. A lot. We found ourselves in stop-and-go traffic for miles, with an almost absolute impossibility of getting off the road in an emergency. We’d be travelling at 10 miles per hour one second, and 70 the next. It was maddening. My friend was driving.
“I gotta piss,” he said, at a very inopportune point of this traffic. “Uh, I don’t think we can get over. Besides, that Chick-fil-A was the last place to stop for a while, anyway,” I said. I think his response was, “Fuck.”
Well, we soon figured out an better plan: Since we’d drained these two giant Dr. Peppers, he’d just dump out his ice on the freeway, piss in that, and drop the cup. We weren’t fans of littering, but this was an EMERGENCY. So he did, he dumped the contents of his cup.
There was one other problem, though, in that he’d been driving. Now, we were in stop and go traffic, with no end in sight, and he had to piss. He did have an empty cup, but not the confidence, nor my confidence, to piss into a cup while we changed speeds at a rapid pace. “Let’s switch,” he said. So we did.
Through a dramatic and death-defying set of movements, we changed driver and passenger seats, on a road known for its dangers, while navigating drive-time traffic. I’m still proud we didn’t take the heads off any children riding in Honda Accords while jumping seats in a giant four-wheel-drive F-150 while barreling down the highway.
Comfortably bent over in the passenger seat foot area, he started to let loose with his bladder on the 64 ounce cup. And let loose he did. In fact, he filled it to the rim. Bad news was, when he’d dumped his ice, he’d dumped his top, as well. Why we didn’t think to use the top off my 64 ounce Dr. Pepper, I’ll have no idea, but now here we were, bouncing down the road, with a half-gallon of piss in our hands (literally).
“Okay, slow down a little bit, and I think I can throw it out,” he said. For some reason, “This seems like it isn’t going to work out well,” came into my mind, but instead, I said, “Okay.” I slowed the truck to about 40 miles per hour, and he rolled down the window and did the ‘gettin’ ready to toss it, gettin’ ready to toss it’ maneuver I’m sure we’re all familiar with, and then… he tossed it.
It didn’t end well.
The cup went roughly two inches out of the car, before making a 90 degree turn (dangerous open end toward us), and absolutely SPRAYING the entire cab of his recently-purchased big man’s truck with a half gallon of his urine. He was literally soaking wet; I think he was even spitting some of his own urine out of his mouth when it was over. The extended cab of the truck, and all the expensive and dear-to-our-fathers rifles in the back seat were soaked in piss, and there was piss on the windows, piss on the back windshield, piss on everthing…
Well, once I was able to control my laughter, and pull over to the nearest service station (which had to be too far away, considering everything was covered in teenage boy hangover piss), we ended up cleaning up the mess well enough, and were able to make it out to the woods in Huntsville after all. Where we rode a four wheeler through the woods and shot randomly at everything, and then ended up ruining the trip by shooting a can of Pork ‘n Beans with an elephant rifle (also, literally), and got pork ‘n beans all over the camping equipment.
I have no idea why our parents ever let us leave padded rooms.
Man that was great!!!
Urination stories!! where do I begin?? to start with I have a bladder the size of an m+m. true story. Now that I have given birth to three large headed boys, I am the proud owner of a bladder that doesn’t always function as should..memorable is stopping on a country road, opening the front and back doors of the car to block the view from passing motorists and sitting on the edge of the floor of the car and using nature. (this actually works well, as long as you don’t own a minivan)
another occurence is riding with my EX husband thru atlanta..stuck in traffic on the ONE road the goes thru the city and him telling me it wasn’t that bad and to hold it till we got to wherever he needed to go..I had the shakes and sweats and animal noises..so I proceeded to drop low and piss in his big gulp cup. think you tell can tell me to suck it up and wait!!…gotta love some men.
When I was pregnant with my 2nd child, she rode my bladder the entire 9 months. I knew every facility up and down Kanawha County!
My favorite pee story… this is probably the best episode I’ve ever seen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ax-JsSxlTIQ
Jeff,
There are virtually no local golf courses on which I haven’t peed or pooed(???) in the woods. I think they outright expect it. Feel free to let’r rip next time.
Stuck in traffic going through Chicago. Boys in one car followed by girls in another. Boys had to pee badly. Pulled over, opened doors, let pee out, closed doors, pulled back into slow moving traffic. Girls asked boys later why we stopped. Said car was making funny noises.
I can wait for hours to go. My kids are another story. We call any traveling we do, Bathrooms across America. They have used every nasty, crusty seat, shiny floor pee hole from Tulsa to Baltimore and back. The nastier it is the more likely they will have to drop off a load. We did have to improvise once and the 8 year old filled up a 2 liter pop bottle in one go. I think thats a record for someone so small. I thought the whole point of woods near golf courses was so that they didn’t have to have more than one bathroom??
Oh, Jeff! This is one exceptionable update!
“I started playing with my legs spread completely apart, so the pants couldn’t physically move, but I was so low to the ground I needed to choke up on my club.
” – classic!
When will your Secrets start carrying their own mini-video cameras? or maybe they already do and that’s how they make extra $$ off of ya?
I’m mean “exceptional” – I was laughing, sorry.
Sometimes I have this phenomenon I like to call “key in lock syndrome”.
I could be walking up to my apartment, having to pee but being able to hold it, until my damn key hits the lock of the door. I guess my bladder just gets so excited, it lets loose.
It’s happened on many occasions. Luckily, I’m already at home so it’s no big deal. I don’t think I’ve ever pissed myself in public (as an adult).
Seriously Mr Kay, the next time you find yourself on a gold course, feel free to piss as much as you want. Everyone else is doing it. But you might want to bring some back-up pants in case, so you won’t have to deal with the problems you had this past weekend.
Did you know that TV weathermen never have to pee?
Why is the man in the header photo so angry at his feet (or is it his shoes)?
Hey; I was just wondering what kind of beer Sgt Crowley and Professor Gates will be having at the White House this week. In other words, what variety should Mr Obama buy for them when he goes on his beer-run. Sam Adams? Yuengling? Any ideas out there?
….or a golf course for that matter….
Absolutely hilarious, Jeff! That’s what I live for!
If you wore a belt with those shorts you would not have had an issue. Just sayin…
or suspenders.
For some men, wearing a belt is like putting a grass skirt on a beach ball. It ain’t gonna stay there for long.
Blanco Negro…why of course!
I use thumb tacks to keep my shorts and sucks up.
The Buster Keaton thing made me think of a song. Think the chorus to the song “Brand New Day” on the movie The Wiz soundtrack but put the words, “Buster Keaton Pantaloons” The verses would be a narrative of the events that led to and observations on Jeff’s pants losing ordeal.
My pee story is a wee bit long. sorry. I was at Miami Beach, the middle part, not south beach. It was December and I was flying solo because my wife was working. I went to the liquor store by the beach and got a couple of those Foster’s oil cans and took my book, towel, smokes, and the beers and went to the beach. I started drinking the beers and dug a little hole in the sand for the ashes, sat there and read my book. Along comes this chica, and man she was hot. Plopped her beach towel right in front of me, sat down and took her top off. It couldn’t get any better than that. I tried not to stare but I like boobies so I was losing that battle. Anyway she moved eventually, I felt bad. I finished my beers, buried my cigs, and started home, but saw a seedy middle beach dive, and why stop drinking when you don’t have to? Had a couple more beers, and was going to hit the head before I left, but apparently there was some kind of cuban drug deal or gang bang going on in there because I tried to open the door but some Cuban guy was in the doorway cursing me out. That’s when I realized that I really needed to pee. I should have gone back to the beach and just peed in the ocean, but I decided to trudge home and just hold it. Bad idea. By the time I walked the 3/4 mile back to the house I was having some kind of spazm. I looked in my pocket but THE KEYS WERE NOT THERE!!!! I panicked. I didn’t know the neighbors or anything. I had to sit on the stoop and wait for the ole’ lady to come home. In the mean time I was having some kind of muscle spasm in my groinial area from holding pee too long I guess. Finally I saw the neighbor who spoke mostly only spanish. I don’t know how I communicated what I needed, but he let me use his family’s can. From then on my belly button has been an outy instead of an inny. No joke. I should probably go to the doctor and get it looked at eh? It’s been a while though and I haven’t had any other problems. You asked jeff.
Grandma always carried an old coffee can in case one of us grand kids got sick when we were traveling home from our farm in Pocahontas Country back to Dunbar. One one such occasion we started up the mountian in Marlingtonjust asjust as it started snowing. The youngest brother had to open the can and throw up. 4 hours later as we reached Patrick Street in 5o’clock traffic and the sun was out. That can had set in the car for 4 hours, and yes you guessed it, the other brother (now a Kanawha County Sheriff), had to pee. Off came the lid, out came the smell, and the rest., well that’s history.
I was on a business trip to Chicago several years ago and the hotel where I stayed had a Par 3 course on their property.
So one evening my friend & I decided to play 9 holes.
On about the third hole I’m teeing off and I see a guy downrange with his back turned.
I didn’t yell fore because the ball fell well short but I didn’t count on the bounce.
Before you know it, my ball nails him.
The reason his back was turned?
He was taking a piss.
I have a couple of suggestions for Obama when he buys beer.
Black Label or Olde English 800.
Been lurkin and laughing here for a long time, high time to come out of the closet. In the early 90s I flew to Florida to visit family for Christmas and my plane left Columbus so late I missed my connection in Charlotte. Got upgraded to first class, and was naturally pretty toasted by the time we taxied out of the gate! Landed in Pensacola two hours after my folks expected me, drunk on my butt and needing to pee something fierce. I blew, only a little off course, right past the outstretched arms of my patiently waiting and relieved family members straight into the first Ladies’ room I saw. And there it was…something I remarkably remember was called The Shurnal!
The Shurnal was (is still somewhere?) the cutting edge of true equality of the sexes enabling Woman, heretofore deprived of the privilege so long enjoyed only by Man, to piss standing up! The device was basically an oval-shaped cup attached to a long tube, the other end of which was affixed to the inside of the toilet bowl. A dispenser with disposable paper Shurnal cup covers promised a sanitary experience…which in my state was enough for me! Moments later, I am shrieking in glee and drunkenness, and my terrified mother runs in the restroom , bursts into the stall (which I apparently did not take the time to latch) and catches me standing up, jeans around my knees, with what looks like a long funnel shoved against my girly parts, pissing down my leg and laughing like a hyena! Merry Christmas, Mom!
When I play golf I usually spend more friggin time in the woods than Robin Hood so there’s plenty of places to pee. Shank it…take a whiz…shank it…take a whiz.
One winter’s day in WV in the early 70’s, it was snowing. My dad, mom, brother, sister and cousin and I were driving from Beckley to Huntington. We were on The Turnpike. The snow kept falling, and falling. The turnpike got closed. We were stuck there for 8 hours with a new kitten and no food except for Christmas cheese from Hickory Farms. This is what you do when you have to pee. You get out of the car and pee. I don’t see the problem. The steam coming from the snow is very cool.
All y’all pregnant ladies need to move to England, where if you’re in need of a pee you can request a cop’s hat to pee in. Seriously, look it up. Socialism at work.
@wvkay did you sign your name? @Limey as a fellow limey I find that hard to swallow (pardon the pun!)
@ Tony Sinn – Well, I guess an irretrievably broken belly button is what you get when you spend the day drinking beer and looking at boobies on the beach while your wife is working. Oh, and that apartment was only four blocks from the beach, not 3/4 of a mile.
regarding the acceptability of peeing on the course
as an avid amateur golfer, I assure you JK, that ANYWHERE is a fine spot.
Little known fact: PGA players while at Augusta National (the Masters) pee behind the azaleas between #12 green and #13 tee. About the only spot that’s hid from galleries, TV cameras and the green suited marshalls.
Good enough for Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicklaus, good enough for me.
I actually got chastised by fellow league players last week. We were on #2 tee waiting for the green to clear, and the 2 pints I had pre-round were ready to cash out. So I leaned against a tree with my back to the others and let loose. The major breach in etiquette is that the tee box sides a heavily traveled 2 lane. My personal golden arch was clearly visible to the passing public.
I didn’t cause any accidents and my retort to the offended players was “Relax. Everyone’s seen a guy taking a piss before. Jeezum Crow.”
I’m going to about 11,000 feet tomorrow on a horse, at at around 9am. Jadey (girl) called and asked if I wanted to go. I’ll be riding Speck. Great horse with,
his own mind for sure but listens to reason. I like him a lot. She’s riding Red Bird. He’s a turd really but a cool horse rsally. We like each other (Speck and me) and Harriette (aka…Poop-Doggie-dog)) will be along be for the three mile walk up to the lake…and the three miles back. I’ve got water and some treats for her so she ain’t gonna die by no means, I will pee along the way just so the elk and bear know I’m here. Harriette wil dol her share of marking up there I’m sure. My camera is at the ready and my gun is loaded…..crashing now just to be ready. Can’t wait to pee up there.
Iraq April 2003, a cuppa two, tree weeks after we crossed over the line I was running comm. for a convoy. The MRE’s we ate every day are very high in protein and carbs, not so much with the fiber, thus we only shit about every 3 days or so. in the middle of the convoy I hit the 3 day mark and we were hours from stopping. I held it for as long as I could and then grabbed an empty MRE box from the back of the HUMVEE and took an enormous deuce in it , what we used to call an MRE brick, surrounded by 3 other Jarheads, although I had been in the Corps for a little over 3 years at that point I used to try to keep a little bit of modesty, yeah that went right out the window.
Both the modesty and the turd.
I work at a marine lab in northwest Washington, where the ocean temperature ranges from 45 – 55 degrees. Thus, the divers all wear dry suits so that only their feet, hands, and head get wet, and those are covered in thick neoprene. Under the rubber-neck-and-wrist-sealed, double-zippered drysuit, they usually wear 3 layers of fleece, which makes having to pee an oh-shitter of a situation.
The EASY solution is unzipping the suit, pulling the skintight neck seal over your head, ditching the suspenders on the first layer of fleece, and if you’re a guy you’re lucky enough to be able to whip it out at that point but us girls have to wiggle the whole mess down and squat off the back of the boat, bare-assed in god-knows-what kind of weather.
The HARD solution is holding it until we’re back at the dock, running up the gangway to the dive locker, and grabbing the pee beaker. WHY is there a pee beaker, you ask? So people don’t piss in the showers, since there isn’t a toilet on the dock. Plus, the beaker allows volumetric measurement of bladder deposits and a winner board on the wall (new records must be witnessed by a neutral party)…the current record stands at just over 1 liter.
I once shit in a refuge can at Busch Gardens. I had been feelings sharp pangs all afternoon and kept putting it off thinking I’d journey to the bottom of this great hill and leisurely let go. But the Gods intervened with the most searing, grisly pains in my stomach and I as I waddled down the hill, clenching my asscheeks as hard as possible, sweat dripping off my brow, I knew that I’d never make it to the bottom and resigned myself to just letting go in my sleek Volcom swimsuit,. Halfway down, as I was roiling and on the brink of an assplosion, I looked around and basically was surrounded by what seemed like a fuckton of extras from the Wire, I spotted a bolted down trash receptacle. With seconds to spare, I dropped said swimsuit, hopped on the pail, and proceeded to fill it with a gallon of Keystone light. I distinctly remember a Russell look a like from the Fat Albert cartoon doubling over, while pointing and yelling at top volume that the “Freckle Faced Cracker With a Farmer’s Tan” was taking the spotlight away from him as he’d peed in at least 8 different water rides. Greatly relieved I hobbled to the nearest water slide (cutting the line) with great jets of water and sidled up as close as I could to the shooting jets of water and using my right hand to alleviate the maddening itch left behind and to rinse the grease from the barrel from my trembling hands. The relief I felt more than made up for the indignant cries of “That’s the white motherfucker who just shit in a garbage can, let’s get the hell out of here!”
I’m still waiting for a security photo of my movement to pop up on the internet.
I’ve had so many close encounters with those dreaded bladder pains and nowhere to pee. Especially after drinking way too much in pubs and bars then getting a train home with no toilets on board …. A few years ago, after one such night of drinking far too many pints of lager and/or Guinness, I obviously hadn’t emptied my bladder enough for the train journey home (which is only a 30 minute journey). I stumbled off the train and started the slow shuffle home – usually only a 5 minute walk – though this time it took me longer not only because of the bladder pains but because my boots were rubbing my toes. I vaguely remember getting the key in the front door and just racing up the stairs to the toilet. I was in such a hurry I didn’t have time to pull down my jeans – I just sat on the loo and peed right through them! It took me a minute or so to realise what I was doing and I thought it was hilarious! The boyfriend didn’t … Especially on finding the discarded soggy jeans still in the bath tub the next morning!
Wow. Try to get a Surf Reporter to comment on something interesting and all you get is chatter. Post a story about bodily discharge issues, and they come out of the woodwork with pee/pooh stories that rival War and Peace.
And Jeff, don’t try to tell me the your number one story and Metten’s number two story were not synchronized. Both hilarious however.
I have had both pee and pooh issues (being ancient as hell and all), but the funniest was on a golf course (seems to be a common theme). We were playing in the Monday night golf league, and a buddy of mine was having intenstinal issues. Round about the fifth hole, he just excused himself, disconnected the golf-club-cleaning towel that all golfers attach to their golf bag for golf club cleaning, and hightailed it into the woods. Evidently, the issues were resolved, but my buddy had to finish the round without his towel.
I guess an emergency loaf-pinch trumps keeping your four iron clean.
@Shazza – glad you finally spoke up! and with such a perfect story, too.
I am known for having a bladder the size of a pea (pee?) A friend of mine and I were going to a concert in San Antonio (we live in Austin) which is roughly a 70 mile drive. For some reason I thought it would be a great idea to start the party early and polish off a bottle (or was it box?) of wine and get in the car (needless to say I was not the driver)
On the way there we hit terrible construction traffic (I-35) and were at a virtual standstill. I was desperate. I jumped out of my friends truck and went to the side of I-35 behind some tallish grass and squatted. His truck had barely moved due to traffic so I didn’t have to worry about him leaving without me. That grass was not that tall so I am sure some drivers saw my display. But I don’t care! I watered the I-35 shoulder grass with my boxed wine pee
Pagan my old mucker, there was piece in the Torygraph a few years back on unusual Laws and that was one mentioned. Peeing on ‘Ackney Carriages was in there too.
Years ago we were waiting to get into a Grateful Dead show at Hampton Coliseum during which time we drank a ridiculous volume of cheap beer. Needless to say we had to relieve ourselves long before the doors opened so we lined up along a fence and started to have the second most satisfying time you can possibly have. Well along comes John Law and plants himself at the end of the line. He didn’t say anything to anybody at first. He just stood there. Seconds later another guy with an over-full beer reservoir started to unzip and the cop sez to him “Sorry son but you can’t urinate here.” the guy sez “Why not. They’re all doing it.” to which the cop replied “They already had their tools out”
At yet another show at the same venue I stood in line at the men’s room for what seemed like an eternity only to find out that it was a line to pee in the trash can. Must’ve had 30 gallons in it.
I was at a wine festival waiting to use the port-a-john when this fellow came out and started talking about how nice these particular out-houses were. Wide seats, double rolls of paper and a little sink. Sink? and then he says that the blue soap smelled real good but it didn’t lather up much and there weren’t any paper towels.
Glad I didn’t shake his hand when he offered!
By the way other than Putt-Putt I’ve only playe golf once. I can’t afford to by that many balls.