It was late July of 2014. A few buddies and I decided to take time out of our busy summer schedules (binge drinking and online classes) to hit the city of Charlotte, NC and take in a show by music icon Dave Matthews. PNC Pavilion was shaking, the crowd calling out for more Dave. It was a site to behold, only made better by the copious amounts of booze flowing through my system. As I gyrated like a jackhammer on a tilt-a-whirl, I felt the familiar pressure of an incoming booze piss.
There were facilities, but that meant I’d have to miss Dave rock the house with a rousing rendition of “Tripping Billies.” I told my bladder to pipe the fuck down and continued to rock my face off. Right around the time Dave hit the second “So why would you care,” I felt a warm wetness spread forth from my crotch. I instinctively buckled and tossed my drink in my lap, wincing at the ice cold refreshment in my nether regions which would cloak my shame. It was happening again.
I love live music. I love catching a 2 p.m. buzz. I love enormous crowds of people clamoring at every banger and raising their lighters at every ballad. I love a stiff whiskey ginger that slowly fades me from Karl to Chaos. Put them all together, and I’m the happiest guy alive. That is, until I piss my pants. It’s usually outside in the presence of a bunch of X’ed out dinguses so I can play it off as just another result of drug-induced stupidity, but, for some reason it’s a serious game killer.
It’s not like I’m above taking a leak in a port-a-john; those things are the only place a man can publicly take a dump while smoking a cigarette and sipping on a mixed drink. They’re the last bastion of American fecal culture. Maybe I can blame it on the long lines. Those things traditionally stretch for country miles. Perhaps it’s some sort of deranged citizenship where I’d rather conform to societal norms than admit I’m at the mercy of internal organs. Maybe it’s laziness, or some kind of deep-seated fetish of which I’m not aware.
Some assholes would say “if you don’t drink so much, you’ll avoid being a pee pants, pee pants.” Yeah, and if you didn’t breathe so much, there’d be a lot more oxygen for us deep thinkers. If you ain’t pissing, you ain’t trying. Maybe I’m not the problem. Maybe it’s society. Why aren’t we all out in the streets calling to “unleash the dragon” right alongside the gals calling to free their nipples? If your bosoms are on full display, why can’t I occasionally whip out the pool noodle to drain it? It’s probably a health issue, not to mention a matter of injustice.
Sure it’s my fault that I can’t control my bladder, but people should have to cast aside their own comfort so I can do what I need to do. It’s 2016 and people need to get with the times. I say it’s time to take this to the courts. Give me Liber-pee or give me death..
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