Tiny Urinals are the Devil’s Tool
I am a Philadelphia Eagles fan.
Sunday, November 25th finds me at the Meadowlands for the Giants-Vikings game.
Sunday, November 25th finds me incredibly drunk by 1:45 A.M.
A stalwart New Yorker, despite being in a divisional rival’s stadium, my cheers rang out along side those of the local fans. Admittedly, my newfound loyalty was clearly a result of bribery – that of the shared half-dozen tailgates that I participated in while making my way towards the stadium.
Easy really, praise the defensive line (outside of “Osi” who had turned Winston Justice into his personal revolving door during the third week of the season), make a crack about Eli, mention I’m from Brooklyn, and VOILA! Within half a minute I have a brat in one hand, a beer in my other.
I guess I can lay some of this open armed welcome upon the company I was with - my girlfriend and a cute female friend of mine. For some reason single, attractive girls are energetically embraced on cold Sunday mornings where the beer is free flowing. Expertly disengaging ourselves from the back on one pickup, only led us to stumble into another. However, after much ado, we got to the stadium and made our way to our seats.
It’s from there, this story really takes place. Naturally, and perhaps predictability, this all revolves around alcohol. Being at a football game on a Sunday is a rare excuse to drink communally from about nine in the morning. Needless to say, I was enthusiastically doing my best to keep up with… well, myself I guess.
When you date a 5’2” girl you quickly learn that a 3:1 ratio on drinks is standard. So, we started drinking before my friend picked us up. We drank in the car on the way to the stadium. We drank when we were lost (I still cannot find Route 3). We drank when we arrived, drank when we walked, drank with people we didn’t know, drank with people we did know, drank with people painted blue/red/white, drank with people in Santa outfits, and we drank the rest of what we had on us outside of Gate D.
As the yellow jacketed security guard grabbed my crotch during my risk, I was glad I had handed the flask to my girlfriend, who walked in untouched. Let us hope the terrorists never hand the bombs to women.
Herded to an escalator to bring us to the top of the stadium, the little demon in my bladder started to gurgle. Lightly at this time, it stretched and yawned, but was luckily unheard over the throngs of shouting fans. Casting a longing look at the line of men snaking out of the bathroom, I decided to hold it until after we had found our seats.
So, up we climbed, and up some more, finding our seats directly in front of a diehard fan, who punctuated every play with the line, “So many weapon!” I’m assuming he was looking for a section wide response, but after Manning’s first two interceptions, it was only his friend who mustered up the resolve to answer, “So many ways!”
A quarter, three more beers and a couple of swigs into the game, my bladder decided it was no longer playing around and shooting pains started to work their way up my abdomen. Quickly excusing myself, I worked my way out of our row, down the stone steps and into the Men’s Room… which was suspiciously empty.
Seriously though, I have never gone to a sporting event and found NOBODY in the bathroom. The fleeting thought I was about to be assassinated flashed through my mind but was quickly replaced with a dull ache erupting from my penile region. Rushing to the first urinal to catch my eye, I opened, unzipped and let loose.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, the orgasmic ecstasy of the beer piss. Allowing my eyes to roll somewhere into the back of my mind, I only heard the footsteps of someone entering the bathroom. Imagine my surprise when I opened them to find a small person being ushered into the urinal next to me.
Oh no. While there are twelve urinals in this bathroom, there is only one tiny urinal, and it is directly next to me. The urinal is some ridiculous piece of architecture that was designed for either midgets or children who want to handle themselves like their fathers… or perhaps for over-endowed black men. Needless to say, the child’s father gave me a nasty look as his child dropped his pants and stood next to me.
I tried to shut myself off. I though of stoppers, dams and plugs… but to my chagrin, it was useless. My mighty bladder flowed effortlessly, a raging river of alcohol laden piss striking the porcelain. Then – I noticed the child was starring at me, and not necessarily at my face.
As images of jail flashed through my head I angled myself away and pushed my hips deeper into the urinal, hoping beyond hope I could stop pissing. It’s at this time the boy decided to start peeing on my shoes.
Yelping, I spun away, spraying the bathroom in a graceful arc of urine. Wild-eyed, I shook the last drips from myself and tucked in before the disgusted looks of oncoming Giant fans.
It’s probably at this point I should mention I was wearing my Eagles knit cap.
So I stood there, in a rapidly growing puddle of piss emanating from the tyke, who, from the sound of it was still peeing all over the wall. In front of me a handful of decked out fans were taking in my piss soaked pants and the urine drenched bathroom. Stammering, I held up my hands in apology, but they only shook their heads.
“Fucking Eagle fans,” one muttered to the other, “Can’t hold their alcohol.”
“No!” I protested. Holding one hand up and pointing the other behind me, “It’s his fault! He pissed on me!”
As their eyebrows went up I turned around, behind me the evil child had vanished. In his place was an 80 year old man leaning heavily on a crutch while pissing into the tiny urinal; his hand was wrapped around his old, old balls.
He spat on the ground in my direction. “Fucking Eagle fans,” he chewed through raw lips, ”If you were fucking on fire and I could make more than a drop come out of this old pecker, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
Slinking out of the bathroom to hearty laughter I made my way back to my seat, plopping between my friend and my girlfriend. Wrinkling her nose, the latter looked me over. The soaked pants legs, the stain around my crotch, and the pleasant, pleasant scent of urine.
“Did you… did you… piss yourself?”
“No! There was this kid… and old man, and…”
“I don’t want to hear it, you’re disgusting.”
Sighing, I slid down in my seat, silent and simmering until Eli Manning threw his third interception which was returned for a touchdown. Jumping to my feet I cheered loudly as the fans started making their way for the exits.
Sometimes it’s all about the little things.
More Paris!
Okay, only have 25 minutes to get this thing up, so I’m sure there is going to be a bunch left out, so AIM me or say hi, or email. I know personal interaction, ah!
It’s my last night in Paris! The ending of an amazing trip, were sadly, to fulfill ever cliche, I learned so much about the world and myself. When you are presented with hundreds of hours of almost isolation, you have a lot of time to work out stuff in your head, and for the moment the constant blur of my mind has slowed down to a meander, and it’s nice. I’m sleeping, I’m tired, I’m emotionally and physically drained, and... I’m looking forward to being back in the States.
Yesterday I went to
Versailles, which is utterly ridiculous. The sheer magnitude of scale in the entire place boggles the mind (
aka, hall of Mirrors). You feel like an ant. Humbled not only by the size, prestige, history and beauty of the place, but caught in the swarm of tourism, you just find yourself swept through the corridors as in a flood. Everything is gilded gold, kilos and kilos of gold laid throughout the place, Tapestries, velvet colored walls… if it wasn’t so tasteful it would be the ultimate bordello, one room had this patterned
green velvet walls that were just magnificent... but really, who thinks up green velvet, ah
Louis the XIV, you sweet sweet precursor to
Prince, the artist formally known as Prince, some stupid sign, and now Prince again.
Equally amazing are
the gardens which stretch into the horizon. High hedges you wander through blankly, stumbling over towering bronze fountains and
amazing flower beds... these French, they know how to garden. Classical music is pumped through a sound system, and as my goal was to sit out and devour Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’ (Which is amazing.) of course it rained the entire day.
Went to the Modern Art museum, where they’ve shifted around their entire collection in what they are calling ‘The Big Bang’ it’s basically tracing the progress of modern art, so the artists are split up and the rooms are arranged thematically… very very impressive and innovative approach which a number of gems (A beautiful Duchamp) hidden within. There was also a light, shadow and mirror exhibition which was neat, and you should check out when it goes on tour. Applicable to little kids too if you want to get your nephews into art.
The building itself is neat as the guts are on the outside in some rather bold engineering.
Today went to
Pére Lachaise cemetery, which was neat as I kept switching my iPod around to correspond to whomever graves I was at last:
Chopin,
Edith Piaf,
Jim Morrison (The End, came on just as I got to his grave, how cool?)... the best grave though was
Oscar Wilde’s. People had covered it in
lipstick kisses and gave it such a cool appearance. There was also a great quote on it, from, The Ballad of Reading Gaol (his last work):
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity's long broken urn
For his mourners will be outcast men
And outcasts always mourn
Ah, k, running out of time, maybe Myev will let me spare a minute and I’ll add more in LA. Probably have too or mom will kill me, mom who is quite nervous about me getting back to the states, say a lil prayer for me.
Love you all and see you soon
.jpg){kind=link}
