Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Public Urination Invariably Leads to Self-Inflicted Choking

I’ll tell you what makes for a good place to pit-stop: a bathroom close to the door. This way, if you’re peeing at an establishment that would usually expect some food-purchase in exchange for urinal-usage, then you can get in & out without having to withstand the withering glares from employees.
One of my favorites is a West-Hammertown Burger King...and though said bathroom continually smells like somebody’s armpit took a shit, there is a massive amount of parking and the bathroom is, of course, close to the door.
Or it was, I should say, as this heavenly respite is now closed for renovations.
Not knowing this as I park to expel two extra-large coffees’ worth of urine, I am at critical mass by the time that I figure out that my beloved rest-stop will be of no help to me. So, I wander over to this strange overlay-canopy-type-tunnel-walkway between the parking lot and the main road, and I let loooooose; I am exposed here, but can’t stop my peeing...even as a van pulls into the parking lot and drives towards me, I turn and jog towards the street, a quick-paced mosey whilst holding a leaky hose, and finish just before reaching the main road.
Aaaah, I say to myself in relief, running around the side of a nearby building.
Aaaah, I say to myself in horror, as the van follows me around.
Like some punk-kid, I keep ahead of the van by scaling a chain-link fence that leads back to my car, and I find myself I have a celebratory smoke.
The van comes wheeling around the corner, having somehow gotten through the heavy main road traffic, and though I am busted, I am not bowed: I take a hearty swig of what’s left of my coffee, trying to seem nonplussed, as a gentleman comes out from the van and hands me my car keys.
This is when I choke, spewing coffee like I had tried to drink it through my nose.
"You dropped your keys," the man says, giant, gaping grin on his face.
There is a pause in his delivery, as I am hunched over with coffee dripping from my beard, laugh-coughing like a lunatic, and then he says, with a snicker:
"Yeah, you dropped ‘em when you went running onto the road with your pants open."
I stand up, still-sputtering coffee-swill from my mug, and take the keys with a "thank you" in as dignified a way as is possible under the circumstances.
This is when I notice that my keys are wet.

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