Keep Your Pants On. Really.

Thursday, I was exposed to two very unwelcome penii. The first man-tube belonged to a fellow who was trimming weeds on the college campus where I work. As I was winding down from an argument with a student who simply could not accept that there is such a thing as an action word ending in “ing” that is not employed as a verb, I glanced out the window. Three floors below, a fellow had a weed whacker in one hand…tally whacker in the other. He was vigorously peeing. While students milled nearby and even passed him on the walkway to his left. Yeah.

 

I couldn’t tell much else about the guy because of his hat and bandana-covered face. His weeeeeeeeeeeener was either insanely dirty or he’s spent major time tanning. But honestly. Did I need to see that? Was it just too fucking far for him to walk the thirty yards to the building? I realize we are talking about an educational institution in Georgia, but, shit. We HAVE indoor plumbing.

 

And, then. As if the universe felt the need to underline the episode, I saw yet another urinary offering that very evening. There’s a Sonic drive-in close to home, and a road cuts up one side of the parking lot. Traveling that road to get to K. Roger for an unrotten avocado, I witnessed a boy, five-ish, obviously celebrating his birthday because he was wearing the suit. He joyously waved his hips back and forth as he fountained the grass with what minutes before had probably been a slushee. He had his little paws propped proudly on his naked hiney and his head thrown back in pure glee. Where were his parents? Where were his manners? Where were his freaking pants?

 

I think the scariest thing about the twin tinklers is that ALL things ALWAYS come in threes. Plane crashes. Hurricanes. Unsuccessful Baldwin brothers. And now this. Any second there will be another uninvited phallic faucet lurking around my field of vision. Awesome. Fucking awesome.

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