When You Gotta Go, You Gotta Go

I am a public urinating menace. My patented move in high school was the “piss walk” where I would whip it out, amble side-saddle and relieve myself on the move. I am all about multi-tasking. And taking leaks on trees, bushes, lawn ornaments, car doors, truck tires, off of balconies, off of bridges, off the top of houseboats, in lakes, in rivers, in goldfish ponds and in shampoo bottles. Unfortunately various authority figures do not share the same affinity as me for public urination. One evening outside of Fiddlers Green Amphitheatre for example, my friends and I were draining Fosters oil cans in the parking lot in an effort to enter the concert venue intoxicated (who we were seeing that evening escapes me as most of the concerts I attended in my 20s all blur together in a glorious miasma of noise pollution and overly-priced, watered-down domestic beer). As we walk to our seats, I decide to take a piss on a nearby chain link fence behind some pine trees (the line for the men’s room had a long a line). As I begin relieving myself a sawed off rent-a-cop emerges from the shadows and tells me in his best authoritative voice, “Zip it up, punk.” I taunt him as I continue urinating saying, “I would probably have a Napoleon complex too if I did not graduate from the police academy.”

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