10:39 p.m. - 2004-04-17
Another Friday night at the bar with good ol Beta! I love that place, and her, and her friends, as I said before. I won a stuffed animal on my first and only try manipulating the crane grabber contraption, and didn’t lose face completely while I lost at billiards. I got wasted on four pints of Sierra Nevada to drown my worries with the help of banter and friendship. I even was invited to stay after hours and help with stool stacking.
There is a water closet in this bar for the minority male patrons, and on each of my many trips to the loo I was reminded of one of the joys of manhood that is a secret gift given to those who make the right of passage of peeing standing up. The urinal.
The above is the very urinal in fact.
Now, apart from being paid $.30 more on the dollar per hour for equivalent labor, not having to endure a monthly menstral period and the hormonal roller coaster associated with such, no fetal incubation duties, and the ability to be aggressive and obnoxious by rites without being labeled a bitch, using the urinal is one of the best reasons to be a dude. Here’s why. See the cluster of holes in the back of the pictured porcelain? If one is to aim their stream, with the practiced mastery that can only come with years of experience, at the center hole (and why wouldn’t one?), they will be rewarded with a beautiful backwash fountain of golden liquid refuse, glittering as it is forced out of the holes upper. It is a carnival game that only costs you the price of the liver filtered liquid ammo!
Almost all urinals have a secret game to unlock to the dedicated decoder, and ma’am, I have tried my hand (and other necessary equipment) at all of them. I say ma’am because if you are a sir you are not learning anything new, but presumably reveling in your personal relation to my tale.
It’s fun, yo. It was fun when I was five, and it is fun in the last year of my twenties. I hope to hell it remains fun well into my twilight years.