Tag Archives: piss

They’re taking the piss now

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In true acronym form, there is a medical condition here in America called OAB.

For those of you unaware of what OAB stands for, or if you’re a fucking camel, OAB stands for Over Active Bladder.

Actually, the word ‘Overactive’ is not two words but I haven’t got the strength, the time or the energy to take the piss out of them for this.

Pun intended.

Anyway, OAB is a big thing here in America.  I’m sure it’s a big deal elsewhere in the world to those of us with the bladder of a 3 year old girl, but it seems to be a bigger problem here in America.

I can’t fathom why.

This is actually a ‘small’

Today at the gym…

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There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.

He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.

Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.

Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.

So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.

He walked[1] to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.

At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.

Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.

Yeah right.  Don’t flatter yourself mate.

I’ve heard the stories about steroids.

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[1] It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.

Come hell or high water

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Did you know that American toilets contain more ‘bowl water’ than those in the UK?

No?

Here’s a British toilet.

toilet bowl uk

Here’s an American toilet.

Detroit postcard

Oops! Sorry, HERE’S an American toilet!

toilet us

Now, this might seem like a pointless waste of water, but I think the Americans are onto something here.

Firstly, no splashback.

Genius.

You’d have to drop a turd the size of King Kong’s finger to generate enough downforce to splash your arse [ass] in this country.

Secondly, and most brilliantly, no skidmarks.  Not one.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a single Zebra patterned toilet bowl since I’ve been here.  I don’t even think it’s possible to create them.

Challenge accepted.

Pass me the bran.

A toilet observation, on the fly

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Well, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, this is mainly due to nothing happening in the jobless lead up to emigrating to America.

Have I  mentioned that I’m moving to Las Vegas?

No, I probably haven’t….over and over and over again.

Anyway, last night my wife and I were at a restaurant rubbing our joy in people’s faces when I decided to visit the restroom (yes, I said ‘restroom’; I’m getting into practice because I know Americans will have difficulty with ‘bog’, ‘carsey’, ‘gents’ and probably even ‘lavatory’ and ‘toilet’).

I walked into the bathroom (still practicing) and walked to the urinals.

Ladies, there is an unwritten rule that you never stand next to another man having a piss unless you have no choice; you should always leave a space of at least one urinal between you.

Well, I had no choice on this visit as there were three urinals and the middle one was occupied. There’s nothing more comfortable and lacking in awkwardness than standing shoulder to shoulder with another man holding his penis.

Thankfully as I started taking care of business, he concluded his and began to zip up his fly.

I wasn’t watching him by the way, but I was so close to him I would’ve been able to tell you how much change he had in his pocket.

£2.37.

However, this guy was taking forever to do such a simple task. This was mostly because he’d undone every fucking button on his jeans, including his belt, so he was now painstakingly taking forever to sort himself out.

Come on man, learn how to use your fly. You only need to undo a few buttons to unleash the beast.

To drink juice from a carton, you open up a flap at the top to get at the contents; you don’t open the entire thing at the seams!

What next?

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Everyone should experience (cl)IMAX

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My wife and I went to the cinema yesterday to see ‘Tomorrowland’ in IMAX.  We enjoyed it and it’s well worth a watch.

After the film I had to visit the toilet; the inevitable consequence of drinking a LOT of Coke!

As I was having the longest piss in history, I started to get bored and began looking around.

(I was in there alone….otherwise it would most definitely have been ‘eyes forward’)

As I looked to my left I saw this vending machine:

Shady Vending Machine2

Yes, that’s right; this vending machine – in a cinema – is selling various lubes of different flavours and sensations, Tic-Tacs (important), a form of Viagra (impotent?), condoms and vibrating cock rings.

I’m not a prude, but come on!

This isn’t a pub or a club; it’s a c-i-n-e-m-a.

I guess kissing in the back row has come a long way.

Pun intended.

Occupeed

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I finish work at 5.30pm, so at 5.25pm I thought I’d nip to the toilet to empty my increasingly aching bladder before the 2 hour journey home.

2 cubicles. Both in use.

Alright, that’s fine. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had that idea.

I waited for 3 or 4 minutes before deciding the occupants were clearly masturbating or dead and gave up. There are another 2 cubicles near the entrance to the building so I thought I’d use those on my way out.

Both also in use.

I waited outside for about 5 minutes, calling out loudly to my wife sat in reception that “I won’t be long as I’m just waiting for these people to finish using the toilet!”

Despite there being noises from within, including flushes and the washing of hands, they weren’t taking the hint or showing any signs of emerging.

“I think they’ve fallen in darling, they’re taking forever!”

Still nothing. I think I heard one of them re-sit down for another performance.

What were they doing in there?

I decided, with bursting bladder and a wife reminding me that we could miss our train, that we should leave the office.

A full bladder is one thing, but proving my wife right is another!

So we left and joined the throng of London commuters and their inept sense of direction.

I tell you, attempting to navigate heaving crowds and packed underground trains with a hairpin bladder is an adventure. A nervous, sweaty adventure.

We made it to Victoria station and straight onto the train. Unfortunately, because we’d left the office so late, the train was really busy.  Thankfully there were 2 seats available at a table, so my wife and I grabbed them.

I removed my shoulder bag and put it on my seat like a tourist with towel on a sun lounger.

“Watch my bag, I really need to use the toilet!” I said, hopping from one leg to the other.

I walked through to the other carriage and found the cubicle.

In use.

Fuck!

I waited.

I waited longer.

I looked at my wife in the other carriage in disbelief.

I even asked some kids I’d they’ve seen anyone go into this toilet (in case it’s out of order).

“Yeah, a girl went in there, innit”

Eventually, after 10 minutes I gave up and joined my wife.

We’re still sat on the train and the toilet is still occupied.  We’ve been on this train for 45 minutes.

I’m about to test the absorbency of these seats.

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‘Faeces’tious and ‘Poo’dantic

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At work, someone has put up these notices in all the toilets in the entire building.

bog sign

Note the use of an ‘@’ symbol instead of the word ‘At’, as if to save space or something. I hate that, especially when the word ‘At’ was actually used a bit further down.

And what if I leave my toilet in an awful state at home?  Does that give me permission to do the same at work?

Ultimately, I want to do the right thing, so I’m going to take heed of the advice offered and (being the literal and pedantic bastard I am) do exactly what it says.

I’m going to enjoy flushing the toilet non stop and shitting in the bin.

Shit down and shut up

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My wife and I were in a mall in Vegas shortly after breakfast and, as we meandered around the shops I didn’t recognise, I suddenly felt the playdough effect kicking in.

Basically, a turd was imminent.

So I hobbled to the ‘Restroom’ to do anything but rest. I walked in and there were two empty cubicles (or ‘stalls’) along with three urinals, all of which were occupied.

No problem, this was going to be a sit down performance anyway.

I went into the first cubicle, locked the door (although it made no difference to my privacy with the gaps around the door) and dropped my shorts for the big performance.

I just had to make sure I didn’t make too much noise as it was very quiet in there.

I started clenching and relaxing at the same time.

Got to be quiet.

Got to be quiet.

There was a pause and all that could be heard were three streams of piss on porcelain.

Got. To. Be. Quiet.

Ha, no chance. My arse decided to sound like the final squeeze of a ketchup bottle.

I waited 5 minutes after I was finished before leaving the cubicle.

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Piss de resistance

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Regular readers of my blog will remember I once ranted about automated doors and their ability to hinder the actual act of opening a door.

For those new to my blog, or those with the memory of a man under investigation for allegedly having sex with a goat, you’ll find the entry here.

Following on from this, I had another choice encounter.

Last night as I left the office, I paused for a moment as I could feel that slight tickle in my bladder suggesting there was a piss in my very near future.  I was running late and, as it only takes about 20 minutes to get to Victoria station, I decided against draining the main vein until I was on the train home. 

I could wait 20 minutes.

Fortunately, having walked for about 3 minutes towards the underground station, my tickle turned into a dull ache.  Having consumed a litre and a half of squash in the last 45 minutes of the day I knew my bladder was not going to be filling up slowly.

I‘m now not sure I could wait 20 minutes.

I negotiated the shuffling morons, ticket barriers, escalators, platforms, trains and countless cases, bags and bell-ends to make it to Victoria station; by which time my bladder was really starting to hurt.

I walked as fast as I could to the platform where my 12 carriage toilet would be waiting.  Unfortunately, ‘as fast as I could’ wasn’t very fast at all considering my bladder felt like it had swelled to the size of a small baby screaming for its mummy.  If the station hadn’t been so noisy I would’ve been reported to Child Services.

I made it to the last set of barriers and was held up by some dickhead with a suitcase who couldn’t activate the barrier with his ticket AND walk forward with his suitcase at the same time.  These skills appeared to be interchangeable, but not combinable.  Interestingly it was the opposite with my foot and his arse.

My bladder shouted at me to use a different barrier and we were through.  I walked to my platform like a wounded soldier on the battlefield and there in front of me was my train; my beautiful, beautiful train.  What a magnificent sight.  Tears were welling up in my eyes…at least I think they were tears.  Are tears yellow?

I was starting to feel a little nervous at this point because a single knock from an arm swinger or one of the countless idiots I commute with and I would’ve basically unleashed yellow hell in my trousers.

I desperately scanned each carriage as I ‘walked’ down the platform; slaloming the directionless cretins who had just vacated the very train I was boarding.

There!  A carriage with a toilet!

It was one of those automated toilets with the big curved door, but it would have to do.  I frantically pressed the ‘open door’ button as I was beginning to tremble and sweat urine.  The door started to rumble open at the speed of a tired sloth walking uphill through treacle whilst carrying a piano and wearing flippers.

As soon as the door had opened wide enough for me to fit through, I slipped inside.  For the uninitiated, there are three buttons inside the cubicle that read ‘open door’, ‘close door’ and ‘lock door’.  I pressed the button to close the door but it seemed the automated system hadn’t finished opening it and therefore I had to wait.

And wait.

It’s a big ol’ door.

Finally the door finished opening and I pressed the button again to close it.  Well, I say ‘pressed’; it was more like ‘jabbed it 74 times in about 6 seconds’.  The door then started to trundle slowly shut.  It was slow.  I mean REALLY slow.

It’s a big ol’ door.

Who fucking designed this?  In fact, who fucking decided we needed an automated door on a toilet in the first place?  It only serves to slow us down at a time when we’re probably in a hurry, like running away from zombies, hiding from the ticket inspector or….dare I say….needing the fucking toilet!  Plus, being automated, we’re always left a little nervous that the door will suddenly and unexpectedly open of its own accord.  Not what any of us want to experience, or see.

Also, these automated cubicles are massive.  You could easily fit two normal cubicles in the same space.  Two normal cubicles with two normal doors that open and close normally; and quickly.

Eventually the door came to rest and I pressed the ‘lock’ button whilst unsuccessfully attempting to open my fly.  I was shaking so much from the pain that I resembled a person with Parkinson’s disease trying to thread a needle.

Finally I managed to free the beast and I did indeed unleash yellow hell. 

Without going into too much detail, it felt like I was pissing out my soul.  I could literally feel my body temperature drop and I believe I may have let out an “Oh yeah” at some point, but it’s unconfirmed. 

It was emotional.

As I’ve said before, I bet Captain Kirk didn’t have to put up with this shit whenever he wanted to use the toilet.

(Insert Captain’s Log joke here)

i need to pee dog

Take a seat

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There’s a worldwide unwritten rule that men don’t sit down to pee. 

Ever. 

I can’t actually remember at what age I stopped sitting, but the act of standing up and draining the lizard rates up there as one of the defining moments of becoming a man; alongside losing my virginity and being in charge of my first barbeque.

Over the years I’ve discovered there are three occasions that I feel allow us to be exempt from this unwritten rule without fear of ridicule, mocking and generally being called a girl.

Here are my three exceptions to the rule:

When you’re drunk

It’s a well known fact that being drunk renders most of us virtually incapable of performing more than one task at a time.  Usually the primary focus is the simple act of standing up, and yet we can still fuck that up; often spectacularly.  So, standing AND aiming is a logistical impossibility and something us men simply daren’t attempt.  It’s easy in the street because a wall (or car, or bus shelter, or police officer) isn’t a particularly small target, whereas a toilet can be.  And if you’re 6ft tall like me, it’s like trying to hit a thimble…from space.  The only real risk with sitting down and peeing whilst drunk is comfort.  It’s likely you’ll simply pass out and wake up on the floor with your trousers around your ankles and your integrity in the bin.

When it’s dark

This one screams of common sense.  I remember years ago sharing a hotel room with a friend (twin beds I hasten to add) and in the middle of the night he got up, went to the toilet, switched on the light (waking me up), said “fuck!” when his retinas burned out of his skull, pissed on the floor anyway because he couldn’t see, then stumbled back to his bed and promptly missed.  I used to do the same to be honest.  I used to attempt to combat this by doing the ‘one eye open and one eye closed’ approach.  This was cunning as I’d switch the light on and I could see where I was aiming with one eye, and then when I switched the light off to go back to bed I would transfer to the other eye that still had night vision.  Genius.  Opening both eyes at this point is weird though.  Try it.  Then one night common sense came for what the Americans call ‘a sleepover’ and I had the ultimate epiphany; just sit down.  No harsh light, no losing valuable night vision, no blue/green blob in your line of sight that looks like an alien attacking the Enterprise when you stumble back to bed….and no having to aim.  Again, the only real risk here is the same comfort as when drunk.  Try not to fall back to sleep.

When you’re horny

The best way to describe trying to pee whilst in this state is a lot like trying to hold down loose tarpaulin in a hurricane.  Just when you think you’ve got it, you haven’t.  It’s messy, difficult, and often uncomfortable and we end up standing like a duck with our arse sticking out trying to get ‘the right angle’.  Just sit down.  SO much easier.  For those of you who haven’t considered this before; beware.  It’s likely you’ll still douse the bathroom floor through the gap between the toilet and the lid. 

Classic rookie error. 

Soon you’ll discover the ‘sit and hook’ method.  You’ll end up sitting a bit forward on the toilet, but chances are you’re on your phone anyway leaning on your knees (possibly reading this right now) so what does it matter?  I was overjoyed when Justin Timberlake’s character in ‘Friends With Benefits’ did the sit and hook.  Good man JT.

—

Now, these three exceptions to the rule of peeing like a man have been with me for years.  Nothing else made it onto the list; it was Drunk, Dark or Horny, no exceptions.  You could have all sorts of shit on your hands or have a broken leg and it will still be considered a bit girly if you sit.

That is, until now. 

Now there is a fourth rule.

Rule Four

You are excused from touching your penis if your hands have come in contact with chillies.

(I’ll let you take a moment for that to sink in….I fucking did!)

In my case I’d finely chopped three bags of bird eye chillies.  What followed was a sensation not unlike getting a blowjob from the Balrog, and luckily* doesn’t go away anytime soon.  Even if I’d taken my blog’s name literally I still don’t think it wouldn’t have been as bad.  Sitting down was an adventure and I’d even contemplated dipping myself into a glass of milk.

So, exception number four is chillies.  And probably Deep Heat.

 chillipenis

*sarcasm, in case you hadn’t noticed

Pissed off

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I stopped off in Sainsbury’s this evening to pick up something for dinner. I was feeling the desire for chicken as I was hitting the gym tonight and figured some protein wouldn’t go amiss.

However, before I got lost in the aisles I decided to finally give some attention to my bladder who had been nudging me for the two hours like a spoiled child in a toy shop.  As I can’t scream at my bladder to shut the fuck up, I decided it might be an idea to find the toilets instead.  It was either that or wait until I got home, but I was bursting and I felt a sneeze coming so I didn’t think it wise to take the risk.

“Clean up on aisle three!”

I searched everywhere for the toilets which is always a great game to play when you’re capable of dousing the flames consuming an entire office block, and possibly the one next to it.  It’s always so much fun playing ‘hunt the toilets’ and not at all tense, frantic and laced with seething rage.

Anyway, I eventually found them up two flights of stairs and navigated the six miles of corridors to eventually find the men’s room.  It was right next to a door that read ‘staff only’; a door that I was convinced opened out to the front of the fucking supermarket, but I didn’t care at this point as my nose was starting to itch, suggesting a sneeze could be imminent.

I walked into the toilets, walked around ANOTHER corner and finally found the urinals.  As I did so, the motion sensor lights came on.

‘Fair enough’, I thought to myself.

However, as the lights came on, so did the nearby hand dryer.

‘Odd’, I thought, but fuck it, who cares?

So I stood in front of the urinal with the hand dryer blowing hot air across the floor and up the wall in front of me. This all seemed less than noteworthy….that is until I started to pee. That’s when I realised this hand dryer was in fact wafting the aroma of warm piss up into my face.  Yes, I was getting a full on facial blast of Eau De L’Urine that had been in my bladder for hours; fermenting and maturing like that first beefy wee of the morning.

And because my bladder had been so full I couldn’t stop the flow any more than I could stop the fucking hand dryer!  Yet this bastard carried on regardless, not showing any sign of stopping anytime soon.  No, it seemed to be connected to the lights so all the time I was stood there it was going to push more and more of this ammonia goodness up my nose, burning my skull from the inside.

I closed my eyes and pushed on, not daring to open my mouth for fear of tasting.  I looked like a dog with it’s head out of the car window, only less happy, and less open mouthed.

Holy shit, how much more is there to come out of me? I was peeing and peeing and peeing.  I could literally feel the pounds dropping off.

I eventually finished, shook my manhood carefully to avoid releasing any droplets into this face focused upward vent of piss infused nastiness, and zipped up.  I then went over to the sink and washed my hands, checking my face in the mirror to see if I’d somehow turned yellow.

I hadn’t of course.  What a twat.

I then turned to face my attacker, walked up to the little shit, placed my hands under the vent and it turned off.

Are you fucking taking the piss?

urinals

It’s not just Llamas

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When us guys approach a toilet we all do something, other than freeing the beast, prior to dousing the porcelain…

We spit.

Why is this?

Maybe it’s our way of marking our territory, as if pissing an aching bladderful all over it isn’t enough somehow!  At first I thought it was just me, but i’ve observed in public urinals that every bloke does it.  And no, i’m not some sort of Pee-ping Tom…I’m just observant.

Let’s be honest, I’ve based my whole blog on that fact!

And we don’t stop at one spit, oh no.  We spit at least once more during the perfomance and usually once again at the end.  Do we have an excess of saliva we don’t need?  Are we honing our aim for something?  Maybe the urinal plug should be shaped like a dart board.

Also, it’s demeaning enough to the toilet that we piss all over it, but to spit on it too is just adding insult to injury.  An abbatoir worker doesn’t kick a sheep in the balls after they’ve slaughtered it, do they?

I’ve asked women if they spit and i’ve been told they don’t.  Ever.  But come to think of it, neither do I when it’s a sit down performance.  I can only speculate that it’s the same for other guys (i’m not a Poo-ping Tom!).

I wonder if this is because, on a subconscious level, i’m worried the potential splashback could result in it coming back up and hitting me?  No one should ever go through the rest of their day having spat on their own ass.  If anything, we should be spitting on other people’s asses.

Ah, this might explain the need to hone our aim.

Is it just me?

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Is it me or can you smell certain foods and drinks through your pores or in your pee after you’ve had them?

Hmm….could be me?  It’s probably me….

The ones that come to mind are:

Garlic
Asparagus
Coffee
Marmite
BBQ sauce
Beer
Curry
Jelly Babies and other sweets
Pizza
Doner kebab
Cream soda

Any others?  Probably.

Is it just me?

Probably just me….

Yeah, it’s me….

Caught in a trap…

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Ever walked under a tree, or between a couple of houses, and had a spider’s web draped across your face or hair? To me it’s a similar feeling to finding a hair in your food, but only once it’s in your mouth. My ‘go to’ reaction in either circumstance is “Aargh! Bleurgh! Get it away from me! Yuck yuck yuck!”

So as you can see, I handle it like a man.

But it got me thinking about these invisible tickling threads of stress and anguish. Well, actually it got me thinking about a couple of things.

1. What were they trying to achieve?
2. How did they get it across such an expanse?

So lets look at number 1.

I know the purpose of a spider’s web (or cobweb…although I’ve no idea what a cob is) is to catch unwitting flies and bugs for dinner. This in itself must be difficult as a fly’s eyes are huge and therefore they must see the webs…or they’re incredibly dumb in which case they had it coming. A web is usually quite intricately designed with dense patterns and very little room for their bug-eyed prey to fly through them or wriggle free. So why have all these random long strings spanning alleyways and our garden gate?

Then it struck me. They’re trying to catch ME! But why? Am I the arachnid equivalent of matching 6 numbers on a Saturday night? Will there be little spider news reporters talking to my captor asking “so now that you’ll never have to worry about feeding your family again, what will you do?”, to which he’ll reply “it won’t change me”. Is it a revenge thing for evicting his uncle last week or sucking his mate up the Dyson?

Whatever the motive, trying to garrotte me with a thin strand of something as strong as candy floss isn’t the way forward. Whenever I’ve walked through his trap and walk away doing my “Aargh, Bleurgh! etc…” He’s sat there, stroking the spider equivalent of a white cat and saying “next time…next time”. Or maybe he walks away deflated like Wile.E.Coyote after another thwarted plan to catch the road runner, complete with the ‘wah wah waaaaah’ played on a horn.

And what about number 2? (snigger).

The average house spider is about the size of a 50p coin (although they do get bigger…which is just plain wrong), so how the hell do they shoot their web at such a distance? When I was at school many MANY years ago I remember having pissing contests with my friends to see who could get it the furthest. In order to equal what the spiders are doing I would’ve had to produce a stream that would clear the school…and the teacher’s car park (cos I wouldn’t want to get in trouble now would I??). That’s some serious pissing power and no-one could do that, except maybe one of my friends who freakishly was able to get it over the toilet door and into the toilet. Legendary.

But this would be some serious distance! How the hell do they get those arcing white ropes of bum jizz so far? Not even Peter North could do that! (Don’t know who he is? Porn star. Look him up). Are they doing it as a team? Are there arachnid builders complete with scaffolding and blueprints? Did I destroy it before its finished?

I feel a bit guilty now.

I think tomorrow I’ll thrash around a bit and make them feel better. It’s the least I can do for ridding my house of those dumbass flies.