Piss on It?

If you go anywhere outside of your home for any given period of time, it is inevitable that Nature is going to call or text message you.  Past experience in screening these calls will tell you that the task at hand is either opening the valve of the sump pump hose or dropping the kids of at the pool. That’s a detailed description of both job number one and job number two in an uncensored fashion.  I have centered both bodily functions around men, not to discriminate against women or send out vibes that I am a lover of rainbow pride, but to simply allow my fingahz to bebop on the keyboard to lyrics to a rant and rave song.  Now to the sheet music.  When the bladder has a full tank of urine, and a pit stop is an order, where are the detour signs NOW when the wall-less urinals appear around that dreadful corner? Heaven knows they’re everywhere else en route.  Is this handicapped porcelain  set-up society’s way of accepting a generic brand pun better known as an engineering design interrupted by a brain FART? You want to talk about a bridge to nowhere—stand in front of these definitions of “fail.” You can’t tell me that times are that tough, a building can’t afford a couple of tin walls to privatize little Willy Wonka!  Sorry, but that crutch of an excuse isn’t covered under the Obama Health Care plan.  In protest of this manhandling invitation creation, I will stand in the background and torture my pee pouch until a stall becomes available before I waltz over there like a dollar menu wind-up toy and take a load off my pelvis.  Who cares if I look like a creeper when I hang out behind the scenes.  If the fire hose doesn’t feel comfortable to come out, then relief can never be found.