Questions

My friends ask me a lot of questions.

Sometimes, a friend will ask me, "Excuse me sir, do you have the time?" And I oblige them, because thats the kind of friend I am.

Sometimes, a friend will ask me, "Rob, what makes you such a good friend?" And I will reply in question, "Who says I'm your friend?" And I will walk away.

And then there are other times when a friend will ask me, "Bobby do you have any good peeing stories?"

"Why yes....

.....yes I do."


Sidenote: This question was asked as I was hanging out with some guys who wrestled in high school and who lift a lot now.

Sidenote to the Sidenote, which means an italicized italic is normal font: Whenever I picture wrestling, I don't picture a real sport, I don't even picture Hulk Hogan....I picture Tickle Fights....and those end even bloodier.

Return to Sidenote: As I was hanging out with these guys, they started into the stories. And as time went on, I realized that the majority of these stories involved anorexia, binge eating, and a lot of unexpected poopage in public settings. As time continued to go on, they realized I had not contributed to the stories, and asked why. I replied that I had control of my bowels and had never accidentally stained myself at a barbecue. They paused for a second, and then asked the question which is the subject of this blog.


There are, in fact, two stories that fit the title as peeing stories. Neither of them cast me in a particularly good light. Anybody wishing to hire me or are interested in me sexually should stop reading right now.

The first incident occurred when I was nine years old. We had just started Sex Ed. This was an abbreviation for Sexual Education, something I did not realize until I was eleven. Needless to say, nine is a bit young for this kind of thing. I could have gotten a parental note and gone to the library, but only the loser kids did that. As classes went on, there were a lot of terms being thrown about the room. Words like erection and intercourse and masturbation. At nine, I had no idea what any of these things were. Raised a Catholic, I thought masturbation is what came after confirmation. I wish that line was a joke I invented. I also wish this next line was too. I asked my priest about it.

I definetly remember that our Sex Ed teacher was of a creative spirit, and decided to teach us a song about sex. PTSD has driven most of it from my mind, but one of the lyrics was: "And then mommy and daddy might decide, just maybe / to get together and have themselves a baby." Powerful stuff.

Another Sex Ed teacher later in life described menustration to us. It was the most brilliant thing I'd ever heard from a seven foot tall football coach with a thyroid condition. He described it as Michael Jordan coming to a party. And when MJ was there, everyone is excited and the party is jumpin. But then MJ decides to leave, and when he goes, the whole party goes out with him ..... until the next party.....Wow.....Awesome.

OK, well, basic idea so far is that I had no idea what any of this stuff meant at the tender age of nine. And then I heard about Wet Dreams. The basic gist of it was: when you start to become a man, its not unusual to have wet dreams in your sleep. And of course they showed a video which consisted of an embarassed kid and soiled sheets. Now, at nine, not everything works the way you want it to, and some of you right now are remembering what the original topic of this blog was. Shortly thereafter, in the comfort of my own home and the innocence of youth, I wet the bed. IT IS NOTHING TO BE ASHAMED OF!

I wake up, and see a giant wet spot on my bed .....

.......

......"MOM! MOM! I'M A MAN!"





My second story occurred at a much more mature age. And by mature, I mean I am now in full mastery of terms such as masturbation, wet dreams, and Michael Jordan.

I am now at the near adult age of 19. And, as one might expect, this story involves alcohol. For sake of legalities, I will say I live in Canada. And if you discover I don't live in Canada, I will say that i wasn't drunk....I was stoned. So I have all of my bases covered.

I was in some form of intoxication on a lovely friday night at a buddy's party. After being stopped from playing darts in a crowded room ("No man, I'll just throw it over them"), I apparently disappeared for several hours. My loyal friends (who also happen to be the same people who asked the original question for this post) didn't give a shit. Eventually my friend's girlfriend, "Keri", found me at 2 AM, and made me lie down on the couch. She placed a wastebasket by my head and a glass of water on a table. Nice girl.

Now there is some dispute with this story. I wake up some hours later, with what can only be described as a damp crotch. The glass at the table was empty. Either I spilled the glass on myself, or I did the thing that made this story qualify for this blog.



Sidenote: Yeah, I pissed myself.



I can't go back to sleep like this, so I try to go dry myself off. Keep in mind, I'm still messed up. I take off my pants......I'll let that image sink in.......and proceed to the kitchen. Now, it's very dark, and I can't for the life of me find the light switch. Giving up, I open the fridge and use that light. I begin trying to sop up my pants with a roll of Bounty paper towels with no success, partly due to the fact that it was still unopened in the plastic wrap.

All of a sudden, "Keri" walks in. Try to imagine the scene. It's probably about 4 AM, I'm bathed in the pale light of the refrigerator, in my boxers, drying off wet jeans with a plastic-wrapped roll of paper towels.

No words were really necessary. She opened the paper towels, flicked on the lights, closed the fridge, and walked away muttering something about the Irish.

Now with the use of actual paper towels, I proceed with the drying. After ten minutes, I realize that it wasn't working very well. And this is when the most brilliant of brilliant ideas sprang to mind. My eyes settled on the microwave. A second later I was shoving my pants in the microwave like the Grinch shoving a Christmas tree up a chimney. I set the cooktime at popcorn, and waited.

Looking back, my pants should probably have exploded. Luckily it did not. After the bell dinged, I started taking my pants out of the microwave (what a strange sentence). Readers, you know that glass plate that spins on the bottom of a lot of microwaves? The thing that isn't actually attached to anything? Well, as I pulled the pants out, this thing came with it. It fell...and CRASHED on the counter, glass shards going everywhere! And I freeze. There isn't a sound in the whole place. Is everyone asleep?

Now here is what my mind is thinking: OK, I'll throw all the pieces out the window....And say somebody stole it! ...... BRILLIANT! .... Unfortunately my plan was ruined as "Keri" once again came around the corner ...looking very tired.

I am clutching my trousers (which were still soggy), still in my boxers, surrounded by glass shards, and I look her dead in the face and say, "I tried to cook my pants."

Good times.

For sake of avoiding embarassment, I will not be signing this blog entry. So, until the next time



Byah!







.....damn