Piss Happens: Lessons from the Grand Master Sean Wokker

As the body ages, mishaps increase. The body slows, muscles atrophy, tissues degrade. I've found that my limbs fall asleep with ease these days. An awkward position at my desk will leave my foot tingling needles-and-pins for a minute. It's a shame I don't how to masturbate with my foot.

I haven't been a stranger to certain accidents. My buddy in high school Sean Wokker, the product of a man and an alcoholic she-bear, frequently used to piss himself. Through his battled-proven self urinations, I came to recognize the symptoms, treatments, and develop decent prognoses.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Sean is def going to piss himself tonight!" Shouts of glee and horror.

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I recently went to send my friend Robert off the night before he drove back to school in California. I arrived late at his place, preparing for the evening with some heavy beers and some light reading at my place.

Robert lives in a sprawling manse and I had to bumbled my way around his compound to find him and friends. I finally heard the group and wandered over to his rooftop patio.

"Hello, old chap." I must have said.

"Good to see you, Rampage." His body snapped to attention. "Do you have cigarettes?"

"Aw, shit, I left them in my car. I'll be back."

I tripped my way through the darkness, admiring the brisk yet beautiful Santa Fe evening. I grabbed my rolling tobacco from the center console of my car and then trekked back through the estate. Yet by now, my beers had caught up with me. I pondered to myself if I should relieve myself inside Robert's home, but then thought better of it. If I couldn't find my way across his backyard, how could I ever find a place to piss within the complex? I didn't want to half to shake a leg onto one of his living room ferns out of desperation. Additionally, the prospect of bumping into Robert's parents didn't attract me; the last time I saw the septuagenarian pair Robert and I had just smoked a marijuana cigarette, possibly inside his house, and had imbibed several beers. Robert's parents sent him to a reformatory boarding school a week or two later.

So, I strolled off into some moonlight bushes. The star clarity in Santa Fe is a marvel, but not the right locus of attention when one is taking a leak.

"Fuck!" i yelped as my bag of tobacco slipped from my grasp and slid under my arc of urine. "No, no, no!"

I acted decisively, redirected my stream, choked off the flow, and went for my shag. I snagged the tobacco and then took pause, feeling a sensation, a warm sensation, not entirely unpleasant, but foreboding of certain unpleasantness.

"No, no, no, no!" The sensation spread growing over my boxers, my thigh. "Oh, god daaamn."

I figured maybe I could just pass this off, just cope and return to socializng. C'mon, we've all felt a little tinkle and then have proceeded to go about our business, no? Never a little wetness in the underwear and the some classwork? I know girls do it all the time especially in third world countries where TP plays more prominence in cargo cults then in the private parlor.

But when I felt the hot stream snake down my ankle and on to the top of my sock, I knew the gig was up. There was no playing this off. "Oh no, you guys. Heh heh. I spilled some Tecate. . . It smells of piss you say? Heh heh, that's why they call it Mexican piss beer, right? . . . No, that's not right?"

"Robert! Robert!" I listened to Robert gayly laugh and converse with his companions. "Robert, I have to go for a sec! I'll be back!" He couldn't hear me from my position in his woods. "Fuck it."

I moved quickly but with a gait that optimized speed and distance from the stinging acid moisture. I wondered if the lemon liquid would be soothing for the ingrown hairs on my thighs.

I whipped out of Robert's driveway and gassed it home. Luckily, I live in the neighborhood. I entered my driveway and saw lights on in my house. The entire fam was home. This one, I was loathe to explain; it was certainly too early in the even to be piss-drunken and piss-drunken driving as well. That should always come after eleven o'clock. I peered through the kitchen window and saw my little sister reading at the table, positioned just before the entrance to the living room and my own domain.

"Hi, Max." She said as she read her book. We're a literary family.

I side shuffled like a blackfaced minstrel around her, reflexively forced into jazz hands as I went by.

"Uh, hey!"

Within a minute or two I was rounding my sister again. I eyed her analytically. Did she see? Had she noticed that I had changed jeans for no apparent reason? Or had the reason been all too apparent? Had she sidelonged glanced the spill? Fucking boozehound brother of mine. Would she tell my father, her mother? Maxy pissed himself last night, I saw him, I saw it all over his pants! Heavens would have it, my sister failed to eye me at all. Thank hormones for adolescence apathy and that ever-engrossing Harry Potter.

I returned to Robert's twenty minutes later after I had initially left for the Bali Shag or Bugler.

"Man, what the hell took you so long?" Robert said.

I sighed and then smiled.

"Wouldn't you like a cigarette?"