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.
@wvkay did you sign your name? @Limey as a fellow limey I find that hard to swallow (pardon the pun!)
White Trash Barbie says
@ 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!
Taiwan On says
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.
Alice in WV says
@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.